


Legend of the Dragonborn

by Casthor



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Deviates From Scripted Quests, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, More Tags but Don't Want to Spoil, Prophetic Dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 84,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3304658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casthor/pseuds/Casthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leto thought things couldn't get any worse when his home was destroyed by bandits and he was left as the only survivor. Then he wound up going to the wrong place to ask for help and things just kept getting worse - and stranger - from there.</p><p>Suddenly he is discovering that not only are legends and childhood stories true, but he is right in the middle of them and is expected to save a world that seems bent on destroying itself.</p><p>This is a Work in Progress. <br/>Tags will probably update - please bear with me, i've never done tagging before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_The smoke was thick and choking, stinging Leto’s eyes and making them water as he staggered from his burning bedroom. His mind was still clouded with being shocked from a deep and half-drunken sleep by the sound of the door to his family home being kicked in and seeing the lit torch sailing through his bedroom door to land on his bed. Sounds of his family’s home being ransacked barely made it through the sounds of wood crackling as it burned._

_The flames had spread quickly, and within a few seconds he realised the whole house was alight. Screams echoed through the night, but he couldn’t make sense of where they were coming from and his vision was further marred by the inferno that raged around him._

_Leto grasped half-blind for a one-handed sword that his father had finished making that day and left sitting on a table to finish wrapping the hilt in the morning. A shape moved through the smoke and flames, huge and dark, and the young Nord knew immediately it wasn’t someone from his village. With a scream of confusion and rage, he drove the sword into the lightly armoured gut, not even waiting around to check that the man wouldn’t rise again. This man had set his house alight, not even caring that there were people inside, and while it burned had been grabbing at anything worth more than a few septims._

_When Leto had woken and dragged himself from his burning bed, the first thing he’d done was check his sister’s bed across the room, but it had been empty. Either she hadn’t gone to sleep yet or she was outside for some other reason._

_Staggering across broken furniture and debris, Leto made his way for the open door, the need for clean air becoming too strong for him to think of anything else. His bare feet sank into the melting snow and he sucked in a breath. The air was only mildly fresher, still tainted with thick smoke and the smell of blood._

_He cast his eyes over the scene that was revealed to him. The entire village was in flames, the few inches of snow that was a permanent feature this deep into the Jerall Mountains melting under the heat to become muddy slush. Bodies littered the ground, their blood joining the mess of dirty snow to form murky puddles. The villagers who weren’t already dead were screaming; some battle cries, others calling for their children or parents or spouses and others still in agony as flames consumed them and they flailed to try and find the river and douse themselves. All had been awoken in the dead of night by their doors being kicked in, and either dragged from their beds and thrown to the ground outside, demands of where they kept their valuables screamed into their ears, or the bandits had ignored them and held lit torches to rugs or anything else that would catch fire easily. There had been no warning, no explanation. There had just been fire and steel and death and pain._

_Leto’s own voice added to the chaos, calling for his parents and his sister. Now that his mind had come out from its sleep-haze, he realised just how bad a sign it was that his younger sister wasn’t in her bed. He heard his name being called and he forced his legs to carry him in that direction. His blurred vision caught a snatch of his father battling a bandit, teeth bared in fury as his greatsword arced through the air. Before he could charge in to help, he sensed movement behind him and whipped around just in time to block an axe to his gut._

_The bandit’s eyes gleamed with blood-lust and his lips were peeled back to reveal half-rotted teeth in a grin. “Come on, little boy, show us what you’re made of!”_

_Leto had never been called little in his entire life. Though the bandit was a tall and broad Redguard, he was still a head shorter than the young Nord he’d tried to gut. Rage overtook Leto and he slashed at the bandit’s face with his sword. He was a blacksmith’s son, and had been learning the art of metalcraft since he was old enough to hold a hammer, but the only swordsmanship he’d ever learned was when he was testing a new blade against a dummy. His swing went wild and the Redguard rammed the head of his axe into Leto’s stomach, doubling him over and knocking the wind from him._

_A cry of agony from his father had Leto spinning around, the sound wrenching at his heart and making him forget that he was about to be killed. He could only stare as his father, a gash across his gut that showed his insides, crumpled on the ground, eyes open wide in death._

_Leto screamed wordlessly in pain and despair. His fist tightened around the hilt of his sword and he slashed out, catching the Redguard, who had been about to drive his axe down into the prone young Nord’s back, off guard. His dark eyes widened in shock as the sword was driven up beneath his ribs and into his lung. The distraught Leto didn’t even wait to see him fall to the ground. He tore his sword free and charged at the other bandit that had just taken his father from him, before his very eyes._

_The bandit easily dodged the savage strike and laughed as Leto slipped in the mud and slammed into the ground right beside his dead father. His laughter failed when the young man scrabbled back to his feet with another shriek and charged at him again, sword held over his head like it was a greataxe. The bandit was also a Nord, his unshaven face scarred and smeared in black war-paint. He dodged the wild swings of Leto, taunting him as he lazily struck out and cut the boy’s unarmoured flesh with his own sword. Rage and the agony of watching his father die made Leto not even notice the multiple slashes to his arms and chest, dripping blood onto the stained snow. All he could see was the man before him; a fellow Nord, who had no honour to be attacking a defenceless village in the dead of night and burning it. He had to die. Leto was going to avenge his father. He had to._

_He was so focussed on making the image of the bandit choke on his own entrails a reality that he never noticed the other bandit coming up beside him. There was a flash of movement that made him snap his head around, but he didn’t even have time to register the warhammer crashing into his skull._

_The world tilted and his whole body went numb as it was spun around with the force of the blow. He lay limply on the cold, wet ground, the flames creating a garbled chaos of moving shadows to his swimming vision._

_He vaguely heard the Nord he’d been fighting complain to his fellow bandit about ruining his fun, and the other respond that they had better things to be doing than toying with some brat in his bed-clothes. As their footsteps carried them away, the darkness closed in around Leto and he was powerless to struggle against it._

_*_

_Leto didn’t know how long he’d wandered aimlessly through the forest, covered in mud and blood that wasn’t all his own. Everything since waking up in the ruins of his once peaceful home village was a blur. Everyone had been dead; the bodies of bandits and friend alike abandoned on the muddy ground while the homes of everyone he had known and held dear burned. Charred corpses were among them; there was no way to know who they once were. The smell of cooked meat and blood and smoke still lingered in Leto’s nostrils and he didn’t think he’d ever be able to get rid of it. He’d tried to put the fires out, burning his hands and feet in the futile effort. He’d tried to shake awake the people he’d stumbled over in his concussed confusion – including his own father, but all that had happened was his already blood- and mud-slicked hands had become even more covered. The bandits had even killed the dogs and livestock._

_At some point during his aimless meandering, the pain of rocks and forest debris cutting into his bare feet and seeped through his shocked brain. He’d been forced to tear the sleeves from his tattered nightshirt and wrap them around his feet for some minor protection, just so he could keep moving. The cold of the snow didn’t bother him. Even if it weren’t for his Nordic blood protecting him, his mind was numb to all feelings but the ache of loss that what small part was still functioning was surprised he’d even noticed the damage to his feet._

_Vague memories of pausing to drink from a river and eat wild berries, only to vomit them back up, flittered through his mind. But for the most part all he saw when his eyes closed to blink or he succumbed to exhaustion and collapsed to the snowy ground were the bodies of those he had grown up with, their blood and entrails spilling onto the melted snow, or their flesh still blistering and bubbling as the flames consuming them dwindled. He didn’t have the sense to clean himself off, or even attempt to tend to the deep gashes he’d received from his brief battles with the bandits that had destroyed his world._

_It was night-time – of what day, Leto had no idea – when he heard the first signs of life that weren’t from the wild animals that made the mountains their home. The warm glow of a campfire filtered through the trees and acted like a beacon, drawing the young Nord toward it like a lunar moth. As he drew nearer he could make out voices, speaking of honour and glory, and another singing about Sovngarde._

_His leaden limbs slowly took him closer, feet tripping on any small obstacle. Leto was too far in shock to consider that he could be stumbling into danger, that this could be another group of bandits or worse. All he could see was fire and life and help. He was half-starved and wounded. He needed aid. The people with the warm fire could give it to him._

_He’d barely broken through the line of trees when several armoured Nords spotted him and leapt to their feet, all conversation ending to be replaced with orders for Leto to stop and announce himself and his purpose. He staggered forward, unaware that any not asleep in bedrolls or inside tents were looking at him suspiciously and had weapons drawn._

_A tent flap was parted and a huge Nord in regal armour stepped out to investigate the ruckus. Whoever he was, even Leto’s fogged mind could understand he was clearly in charge. The blue-clad warriors nearest him stepped aside to allow him through as he strode toward Leto, a frown creasing his heavy brow._

_“Lower your weapons, he’s just a boy and he’s unarmed.”_

_“But, my Jarl,” one of the warriors protested, “how did he find us?”_

_Before anything more could be said, Leto’s knees buckled. One of the blue-armoured warriors reached out and caught him, easing one of the young man’s arms over his shoulders to take his weight._

_“Talos, he’s wounded!”_

_The ‘jarl’s’ booming summons for a healer went unnoticed by Leto as another set of hands aided the first and started to move him through the camp._

_“Please,” Leto croaked, “my village…we were attacked…”_

_“Easy lad,” one of the men holding him up murmured, “we’ve got you. You’ll be alright.”_

_“I need help,” he insisted, “they’re all –“_

_He never got the chance to finish his plea. With battle cries that shattered the silence of the night, a sea of crimson-clad warriors burst through the trees, weapons drawn. The strong arms that had been supporting Leto suddenly threw him to the ground and he felt a fur boot slam into his ribs._

_“Damnit! It’s an ambush and he’s the distraction!”_

_Heavily armoured warriors poured into the camp and began to hack their way through the blue-armoured Nords, shouting out that they were under arrest. The two who had been walking Leto toward a healer turned and rushed into battle, ignoring the unarmed youth in exchange for the real threat._

_As battle raged around him, the sounds of screaming and pain reawakening Leto’s terror and sending him back to the massacre he’d just fled from, he scrambled to his feet. With wide eyes staring at the scene of crimson-armoured warriors hacking their way through the blue-armoured ones, filling the air with the scent of blood, Leto found himself stumbling back and away, shaking his head. He hadn’t heard the heavy footfalls approaching behind him. What was taking place before him was a one-sided slaughter. Many of the blue-clad warriors had been sleeping when this had started, and all had been caught off guard. It was almost exactly the same as the bandit attack on Leto’s village._

_When a scuffle between a Nord in a horned helmet and an Imperial whose armour clanked like a blacksmith’s workshop wound up kicking hot coals from the campfire into a nearby tent, Leto was lost in the memory. Flames immediately engulfed the tent and spread to the nearby ones._

_When the heavily armoured hand of the one who had crept up behind him slammed down onto his shoulder, Leto whipped around and struck out. He couldn’t see the face of a warrior, all he saw was the bandit that had killed his father._

_He knew he was almost defenceless without armour or a sword – which he’d been too concussed to retrieve when he’d awoken in the middle of the road at his village – but he was too frenzied to care. His opponent was shorter than him, slighter of build, and despite his heavy armour, he staggered back with every blow Leto landed to his face._

_Finally, the young Nord’s wild thrashing left the Imperial a good enough opening to use. He swung the hilt of his sword at Leto’s head, landing a blow near where his skull was already battered from the bandit’s warhammer that had spared him death._

_Leto slammed into the cold ground, head swimming and vision darkening. Once more he was left with the vision of flames, the smell of smoke and blood and the sounds of death as darkness consumed him._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review and let me know what you think. I love feedback. How else can we improve without knowing what others think? 
> 
> Thank you for reading :)


	2. End of the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old life ended... and a new one looking like it will end before it's even begun.

The bumping of the cart brought Leto back to consciousness. He reached up to massage his aching head only to find that his wrists were tightly bound together in leather strips. He was suddenly wide awake and glanced around him.

He was sitting in the back of a carriage, the last in a line, headed down a paved road. With him in the back were three others, also bound. The one seated next to him was gagged, hunched forward and staring angrily at the planks at his feet. Leto recognised him as the one in regal armour that had been in charge of the camp he had stumbled into. The one across from the gagged old man was like Leto himself, a young Nord dressed in tattered rags. He looked terrified and was struggling futilely with his bonds. The one opposite him was dressed in blue. Leto now recognised it as Stormcloak armour.

When Leto realised that everyone else in the other carts were in Stormcloak blues as well, and that the crimson-clad people transporting the troupe were Imperial soldiers, he felt his heart stop for a moment before it started to pound. By the Divines, he had stumbled into a rebel camp, right before an ambush! His arrival may have even triggered it.

The Stormcloak realised he was staring at him. “You’re finally awake. You were the one who came to our camp, just before the Imperials. Were you trying to cross the border?”

Leto didn’t answer. There was the hint of accusation in the rebel Nord’s voice, as though he blamed Leto’s alleged border crossing for leading the Legion to them. Maybe unintentionally, but leading them nonetheless. But it was impossible. For them to spring their ambush so quickly after his arrival and take advantage of their lowered guard, they had to have been lying in wait already. Leto had just provided them with the perfect opportunity.

The Stormcloak, staring into Leto’s eyes, gave a sigh and shook his head. “Well, either way, it looks like you walked into that Imperial ambush, same as us… and that thief over there. Turned up after the fighting was over and was arrested the same as all of us.”

Leto’s eyes moved to the dark haired Nord in rags as he made a disgusted sound. “Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I’d have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell. You there,” he glanced to Leto, “you and me – we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

Leto looked away from him. He had to admit he was inclined to agree. Perhaps not about a lazy Empire but they shouldn’t be bundled up with rebels on their way to who-knew-where. But his pa had always told him to keep his nose out of things he didn’t understand, and his teeth together if he didn’t have anything worth saying. And at that moment he could neither think of anything worth saying, nor believed his voice would actually work. His home had been destroyed, and instead of finding help, he’d found himself involved in another blood-bath. And now he was bound and in custody. He’d probably been assumed as a new recruit to the rebellion, yet to be given armour. Or at the very least a sympathiser to be in their camp. Hopefully when the carriages got to wherever they were going he’d be able to speak to one of the Legionnaires and sort it out.

It wasn’t that he had anything against the Stormcloaks – a man had the right to worship whichever god he chose – but he wasn’t willing to die with the rebels over a misunderstanding. The Empire was the law, and his village had been too far away from any other settlement to know much more than that the White Gold Concordant had been signed and they should hide their shrines to Talos and Ysmir. So they had, but otherwise obeyed the rules of the Empire. He knew practically nothing of the politics that had started the civil war, and had no desire to try and learn it, but at the same time his home village had no animosity toward the rebellion, so neither did he.

The young Stormcloak, who Leto realised was only a few years older than him, gave the thief a look that was both impatient and sad. “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief,” he said gently.

The driver of the carriage turned his head back toward them as the dark-haired Nord looked to be about to spit something back – or just spit. “Shut up back there!”

They obeyed, falling into silence. It didn’t last long. The panicked thief seemed to give up on escaping his bindings, but needed something else to distract him. He looked at the gagged man beside Leto.

“And what’s wrong with him, huh?”

“Watch your tongue!” the blue-clad Nord snapped. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.”

Leto glanced at the old man, who was glaring at the horse-thief. He clearly had no sympathy for the terrified man who’d been mixed up with the rebels. It wasn’t until Ulfric turned his angry eyes to him that he realised he was staring with his mouth hanging open. It wasn’t every day a man found himself bound in a cart and sitting next to the leader of a rebellion. He quickly looked away from that glare that was both as icy as Skyrim’s landscape and burning with silenced fury at the same time.

In the back of his mind, Leto wondered if his situation could get any worse. Not only was he being carted off with rebels, but he had been seated next to the _leader_ of that rebellion. Even though his village was so isolated very few even knew it existed, they had heard of Ulfric Stormcloak. With how quickly and powerfully the rebellion against the Empire had spread, you’d have had to have been living under a rock, or deep inside one of the ruins in the mountainside to have _not_ heard of the man… and even then news probably still would have found a way to reach you.

He remembered the buzz of talk around the village when news of the rebellion had reached them, and many thought that the Stormcloaks would appear to try and recruit. Leto’s father had laughed at that, saying that even if the mighty Jarl Ulfric knew that their little village existed, he was likely the same as everyone else in Skyrim and believed them to be part of Cyrodiil, despite being a mostly Nord settlement. Leto remembered his mother’s chastising of his father’s outspoken views that they had no business gossiping about the war, that they should keep their noses clean of matters too far away to bother them and just get on with their work. His mother had been the closest thing to a priestess they’d had aside from the priest of Arkay that cared for their Hall of the Dead, and she had believed that fighting for one’s god was a noble venture. In the privacy of their own home, she had also added that it wasn’t as though there was much else to talk about around the village.

Despite the belief that no soldiers from either side would appear to try and recruit – both Cyrodiil and Skyrim thought the village belonged to the other province… until tax time – the shrines to the gods, ancient, old and new, were hidden. There was no sense in tempting fate by brazenly opposing the law of the Empire and openly worshipping Talos or Ysmir. They were one and the same, after all.

Leto was snapped out of his memories of home by the Stormcloak’s voice. He glanced up and realised that everyone was looking at him expectantly. He gave a blank stare in return. He’d vaguely overheard the horse thief panicking about where they were headed, then some other conversation that seemed as though the Stormcloak was trying to comfort the smaller Nord. And it was obvious that they were headed to their deaths; with the leader of the rebellion in their custody, the Imperials weren’t likely to just be taking them to a prison. But Leto’s thoughts had been too deep in the more pleasant memories of home, times before the massacre, to pay attention.

“I was asking where you are from.”

The young Stormcloak’s voice was soft and he was clearly trying to be comforting. He could see that Leto was just as terrified about his situation as the horse thief, but was suffering in silence instead of wailing about it. And Leto could see from his expression that he was trying to solve the mystery of the cuts, bruises and burns that he hadn’t gotten in the skirmish against the Imperials.

“It doesn’t matter,” Leto murmured, surprised his voice actually worked. “It’s gone now.”

“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home,” the Stormcloak prodded gently.

Even though it was hardly his fault, and he was clearly trying to help in whatever limited way he could, Leto glared at the man. “My village was slaughtered by bandits. Everyone I know is dead and my home was burned to the ground. I don’t want to think about that before I die too.”

His three fellow prisoners looked at him in shock, then to the carriage floorboards. The thief muttered ‘awkward’ and silence fell. Leto slumped back against the edge of the carriage, closing his eyes against everything going on and hoping it was all just a dream. He wanted desperately to wake up and discover himself lying in his own bed, hung over from far too much homebrewed mead, with his sister standing over him about to dump a tankard of icy water over his head in revenge for snoring too loud.

Admitting out loud what had led to him staggering into what had turned out to be a Stormcloak camp in the middle of the night, begging for help, had brought the pain crashing back. He couldn’t even try to sink back into the happier memories he’d been lost in before the Stormcloak had spoken. He opened his eyes and stared blankly out at the moving landscape. Beneath his lids, all he could see were bodies and burning homes. And accompanying the mental turmoil of speaking aloud what had become of his home, the pain in his head and the stinging burns and cuts that littered his body awoke. He had felt numb to the pain, too busy being terrified about being confused for a rebel by the Imperial soldiers guarding their carts, almost as though he were watching this happen to someone else. But the pain reminded him that this wasn’t just some horrible nightmare. It was much, much worse. And it was happening to him.

The silence that had fallen over the doomed prisoners lasted until they reached the gates of a settlement. Which one, Leto had no idea. Before fleeing the burning remains of his home, he had never been further away from his village than into the woods.

A soldier manning the wall saluted to the grey haired Imperial in general’s armour that had been leading the troupe of carriages.

“General Tullius, sir. The headsman is waiting.”

The general nodded up to him. “Good, let’s get this over with.”

As they passed beneath the wall, the horse thief’s breath grew ragged again. “Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynereth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me.”

The young Stormcloak ignored the thief’s renewed panic and fixed the general with a glare. The carriages were moving past him now; he had moved to one side and was speaking to a trio of Altmer Leto guessed were Thalmor, if their dress was any clue. While the Stormcloak spat over the edge of the carriage and grumbled that he was certain the elves had something to do with their capture, Leto sent his own silent prayers to the gods. Unlike the horse-thief, he had his mother’s teachings to fall back on and many more gods that might listen to his pleas for mercy.

While he may not know much about the elves’ involvement with the Empire and the rest of the politics surrounding the civil war, he knew enough that seeing one in robes with body guards at the same place as an Imperial general and the leader of the Stormcloak rebellion only meant one thing: a speedy execution. He would need all of the divine help he could get if he was going to try and convince the Legionnaires that he wasn’t a rebel, that he had just gone to the wrong place for help. From almost the moment he had woken up and realised his situation Leto had known the carts were destined for the headsman, but he had at least hoped that there would be some kind of trial.

But that hope was gone now. The way the Legionnaire’s had everything perfectly organised, a garrison ready and waiting for their general’s return with Ulfric Stormcloak himself bound in a death cart, the Thalmor waiting… this was planned. As the carts bumped further down the road, bystanders calling out their hatred, and he lost sight of Tulluis, a new sight greeted him that made his breath catch and his heart stop.

The soldier on the wall hadn’t been exaggerating when he’s said the headsman was waiting. The hulking man was already hooded and standing by his block in the staging area, running a whetstone over the blade of his axe. There was a priestess standing near him, hands clasped in prayer in front of her.

The carts were slowing and Leto found himself staring at the Stormcloak across from him. His face was so calm and there was a small smile on his lips as though he had forgotten he was about to die. He seemed lost in sweeter memories of a time not so long ago that he had found this town, Helgen, a comfort and had even had a lover here. Leto wished he could glean some of the rebel’s courage for himself. He may be silent, unlike the dark-haired horse-thief whose head was whipping around frantically, but he was terrified. Since being awoken by his door being kicked in and a lit torch being thrown onto his bed, he felt like his mind was scrambling desperately to just keep him conscious. He couldn’t keep up with everything that was unfolding before him. He felt like a spectator of some kind of bardic horror tale.

Though, he thought darkly, at least he wouldn’t have much longer to try and keep up.

The carriage finally gave one last lurch as the driver drew it to a halt. A woman in the heavy armour of an Imperial captain moved toward the rear of their carriage.

“Get these prisoners out of the carts. Move it!”

More soldiers moved to the rear of the other carts in pairs.

“Why are we stopping?” the thief asked.

Leto wanted to smack him up the side of the head. Did he really need to hear it all said out loud? Did he need to hear the words ‘you are about to die’ for him to realise the situation he was in? They had all heard the soldier tell his general that the headsman was waiting, and said headsman was now thumbing his axe in anticipation while the general and the Thalmor got into positions around the staging area.

“Why do you think?” the young Stormcloak asked as he stood, stretching the aches of the uncomfortable journey from his spine as best he could. “End of the line. Let’s go. Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting for us.”

The thief rose to his feet and looked at the Imperial captain and the soldier who had been following their carriage. “No! Wait! We’re not rebels!”

“Face your death with some courage, thief.”

Leto managed to get his trembling legs to obey his command to rise. He couldn’t understand the young Stormcloak’s calm. He seemed almost enthusiastic about the idea of hopping out of the cart and stretching his legs, ignoring the fact that it would end with him headless at the feet of the Imperials.

They group jumped down from the cart and Leto’s legs almost gave out. If it hadn’t been for the Stormcloak behind him grasping his elbow to keep him upright, he would have crumpled to the dirt in an undignified heap.

The executioner eyed the flood of blue-clad prisoners spilling from the backs of the carriages over, almost thoughtfully, before going back to sharpening his axe. The thief gulped loudly at the sight and looked desperately at Ulfric Stormcloak.

“You’ve got to tell them! We weren’t with you! This is a mistake.”

Leto couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the thief’s antics. The man was gagged. Even if he had any desire to help the thief – which he clearly didn’t – he was unable to speak. It wasn’t that Leto wasn’t terrified… he was… but he simply couldn’t muster the energy for panic or pleas. Maybe he was still in shock from all that had happened. Or maybe the bumps on the head he’d received had rattled his brain.

As expected, the Jarl ignored the horse-thief’s pleas, instead watching General Tullius head for the execution area.

The soldier beside the Imperial captain opened up a notebook and gave a nod to her.

“Step toward the block when we call your name. One at a time.”

“Empire loves their damn lists.” the young Stormcloak muttered from beside Leto.

Leto felt his heart begin racing with hope. None of the Legionnaires had asked his name. If they had a list of those that were destined for the block, then they’d realise he wasn’t on it. Maybe they’d realise that he wasn’t a rebel, wasn’t a criminal at all. Maybe they’d let him go. With the efficiency and planning that the Imperial’s ambush had been performed, the attention to detail could work in Leto’s favour. If the Stormcloak’s slur on the Empire and its lists was accurate, then they would have to realise that Leto didn’t appear in any of their notes on the rebels.

“Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm,” the Imperial soldier started reading.

As the Jarl stomped toward the block, the Stormcloak who had ridden with them bowed his head in respect.

“It has been an honour, Jarl Ulfric.”

The Imperial soldier checked his name off on the page.

Leto could hear names being called by other soldiers with notebooks, Stormcloaks moving from the end of their carriage to the execution area. Through the shock clouding Leto’s mind, he found it darkly amusing just how orderly and civilised this all was. Names on lists and calm steps forward, not at all like a bunch of captured rebels about to be relieved of their heads. When the Imperial with the names for their cart called ‘Ralof of Riverwood’ the young Stormcloak who had sat across from Leto stepped toward the growing crowd of blue.

“Lokir of Rorikstead.”

Suddenly all sense of order was gone. The horse-thief stepped toward the captain and the soldier with the list, trembling hands held up in a defensive gesture.

“No, I’m not a rebel. You can’t do this!” His voice was high and shrill with panic.

The soldier holding the list kept his eyes to the page, clearly not comfortable with being the one to read out the names and sentence men to die. The captain simply stared through the thief, as though his protest was heard all the time and bored her. She only snapped to attention when the horse thief cave a cackle and lurched into motion. He shoved straight past her, bound hands pushing into her shoulder and knocking her off balance.

She quickly recovered and whipped around to see him sprinting back up the road. “Halt!”

“You’re not going to kill me!” Lokir cried, his voice soaked with desperate hope as the gates grew closer.

The captain rolled her eyes and gave an impatient sigh. “Archers!”

Everyone watched as Lokir’s back was peppered with arrows. His body hadn’t even crumpled to the ground when the captain looked around her group of prisoners. Her eyes bore into everyone that returned her gaze.

“Anyone else feel like running?”

“A little.”

Leto hadn’t realised he’d said it out loud until the Stormcloak who’d been in the carriage with him – Ralof – snorted in laughter. Leto felt his face flush and glanced at him from the corner of his eye. The number of Stormcloaks was enough that the group around the execution area was little more than a few paces from him.

The list keeper for their carriage finally glanced back up. His brow furrowed with confusion. Leto now stood alone, the others on his list – on all of the lists – were waiting for their execution between the carts and the block. He rechecked the list and flipped through a few pages, the frown deepening.

“Wait. You there. Step forward.” Leto obeyed. “Who are you?”

The captain leaned in to look at the book. Then, seeing that there were no more names without neat checks next to them, signalled for the other list holders to come over.

“My name is Leto, sir. I’m not a Stormcloak,” he said while she checked the other lists.

“Where are you from?” the captain asked.

“My village is… was… Stuhnvall. It was attacked and burned by bandits. That’s why I was in their camp, I was looking for help.” The captain and the soldier traded glances. “I’m not a Stormcloak,” Leto repeated weakly. “I’ve never done a crime at all.”

“You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman.” The Legionnaire’s eyes were heavy with sympathy, but it was obvious he would do nothing to help him. Whatever his captain decided would be his fate.

“’Come home’? My village was _in_ Skyrim. I never crossed the border!”

The soldier ignored him. “Captain, what should we do? He’s not on the list.”

“Forget the list. He goes to the block.”

Leto’s heart sank. She hadn’t even paused for to think before ordering his death. She hadn’t even cared about why he was seeking help. So much for the Empire being just. He could understand that they wanted to quell the rebellion, and in Skyrim killing a thief wasn’t exactly uncommon, but to just throw Leto in with them and execute him when they had nothing on him? It was wrong. They had to know that.

The soldier nodded. “By your order, captain.” He gave an apologetic smile to Leto, as though it would make the situation all better. “I’m sorry. At least you’ll die here, in your homeland.” He squared his shoulders and regained his composure. “Follow the captain, prisoner.”

The captain had already moved off, not even waiting to see if Leto had any more pleas or reasons he shouldn’t be beheaded. All he could do was stand dumbstruck, his feet rooted in place, and his jaw hanging slack. It was the gentle nudge from Ralof that made him snap out his trance and turn to the block.

General Tullius was standing in front of Jarl Ulfric, a hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. “Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgan call you a hero. But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.”

Even though he was clearly relishing having the leader of the rebellion bound and gagged in front of him, the general seemed to be more speaking to all of Helgen. The Jarl said something beneath the gag but it was muffled. The rage in his eyes made it clear that what he had to say was nothing friendly.

Tullius ignored his muffled curse and continued his speech. “You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace.”

Before the Jarl could react, or the General continue, a strange sound echoed down through the mountains. Everyone – rebel, bystander and Imperial alike – looked up, searching for the source. It almost sounded like some kind of animal, but Leto had lived in those mountains his whole life and he’d never encountered anything that made a sound that loud.

“What was that?” the soldier who had called the list for Leto’s cart asked. He had moved into position near the chopping block, but now he was looking wildly around, his hand hovering over the sword at his hip.

“It’s nothing,” the general dismissed irritably. “Carry on.”

He moved to the side of the execution area, clearly fuming that his speech had been interrupted. It would seem that the Empire loved their theatrics just as much as their lists.

“Yes, General Tullius.” The captain straightened up on his approach, quickly concealing her brief confusion, then turned to a priest who stood behind the executioner. “Give them their last rites.”

She nodded and rose her hands to the sky, closing her eyes. “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you. For you are the salt and the earth of Nirn, our beloved –”

“For the love of Talos,” a red headed Nord stepped out from the crowd and stormed toward the chopping block. “Shut up and let’s get this over with.”

The priestess trailed off and lowered her hands. “As you wish.”

He stood before the block and glanced at the captain. “Come on, I haven’t got all morning.”

If she was at all surprised by the Nord rebel’s actions, she didn’t show it. She moved up behind him and pushed him down to his knees. As her foot pressed against his back and lowered his head over the block he grinned up at her.

“My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?”

The captain kept her foot on his back until the headsman swung his axe down and dropped his head into the crate in front of the block. She kicked his corpse unceremoniously to one side.

A Stormcloak woman stepped forward, straining against her bonds and the hands of the rebels holding her back. “You Imperial bastards!”

Shouts rang out from the audience of locals of ‘justice!’ and ‘death to the Stormcloaks!’

Standing beside Leto, Ralof gave a small smile at the dead Stormcloak. “As fearless in life as he was in death.”

The Imperials ignored it all, simply supervising the prisoners to make sure they didn’t try to escape. The captain stepped back from the block and scanned the sea of blue, searching for the next one to lose their head. Her eyes landed on Leto and he felt his blood freeze. He knew she would call him next; a single ragged figure in the sea of blue armour. Get his execution over and done with quickly to avoid any awkwardness over the fact that he clearly didn’t belong there, hadn’t been listed for death and should have been transported elsewhere until his story could be checked. To be called before the leader of the rebellion, they all knew they were doing wrong in simply killing him.

Her eyes never left his as she spoke. “Next, the Nord in the rags!”

The strange roaring sound rang out again, momentarily distracting everyone. The soldier by the block glanced at his captain, uncertainty on his face. “There it is again. Did you hear that?”

She gave the young soldier a stern look, unimpressed by his obvious fear. “I said: next prisoner!”

He straightened up and turned to Leto. “To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy.”

Leto’s legs moved sluggishly. They were shaking so badly he wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it that far. He glanced down at the body he was forced to step over. Blood still dripped from the stump of his neck and he could clearly make out the spine.

He stood before the block, shoulders back and staring straight ahead, trying to look fearless. He felt the captain’s hand slam onto his shoulder. It was enough to drop him to his knees, she needn’t have bothered kicking the back of one. He started shaking violently, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

The captain’s boot pushed him forward. His face fell inches from the decapitated head of the Stormcloak. Sightless eyes stared back at him, mouth slack and gaping open. Bile rose up Leto’s throat and he turned his head to the side, facing the executioner. His eyes were beginning to blur with tears of terror and he didn’t want anyone to see them. He wasn’t a coward and he didn’t want anyone to think he was, even if they were all about to die and he didn’t even know them. He had seen so much death recently… and he had just gotten a far too close a glimpse of what his future held. Soon his eyes would be clouded with death too, mouth agape and gore leaking from the stump that once joined his head to his shoulders.

Facing this direction, the executioner was the only one who could see his face. And besides, he wanted to see his death coming. To at least keep some of his dignity and not pretend it wasn’t happening like a child.

The executioner looked down at him as he adjusted his grip on his axe. He felt the cold nip of steel as it was pressed to his neck, lining up the shot. Though his face was mostly covered, Leto could see the man’s eyes and he thought he saw a glint in them that said the man enjoyed his job. Leto gulped and prayed silently – at least he hoped it was silently – that his head came off in one go.

The roaring echoed again, this time growing louder. Leto didn’t notice, his eyed fixed on the executioner as he hefted his bloody axe above his head with a grunt of effort. As the blade lifted away from his skin, he felt the air touch the thin, slick line of another man’s blood left behind by the kiss of the blade; the target the headsman would aim for.

At least he would be with his family again soon. He’d be able to apologise for failing to protect them like a true Nordic son should. He had a brief flash of terror that he was too much of a coward to go to Sovngarde, but just as quickly it faded. He may have run from the ruins of his village, he may be accepting his death now without a fight, but he had fought as best he could against the bandits that took his world from him.

At the same time as he realised that the headsman hadn’t taken his head, that his attention was now on something else above him, he heard General Tullius shouting.

“What in Oblivion is that?”

Leto blinked his eyes clear and saw a giant, dark shape moving toward Helgen.

“Sentries! What do you see?” the captain shouted. There wasn’t a trace of fear in her voice. She was too well trained for something as foolish and useless as that.

“It’s in the clouds!”

The soldier hadn’t even finished his sentence when the giant, ebony scaled beast landed on the tower behind the executioner with a ground shaking thud. Everyone stumbled to keep their footing as the beast lowered its head and looked down at them with hungry eyes.

“Dragon!” A woman – Leto thought it might have been a Stormcloak – screamed.

And then, for what felt like the hundredth time to Leto’s frayed nerves, all hell broke loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. If you see mistakes or anything let me know :) Also, in case anyone is interested in images i have to go along with the chapters of this story, the same story and their images can be found on DA. I'm under the same name there :)


	3. Choiceless

The beast’s giant maw opened and it roared something that sounded unsettlingly like words. No mere beast should be able to speak. A rain of fireballs fell from the sky, exploding when they hit the ground and everyone scattered to avoid being hit by the chunks of flaming stone. The beast – could it really be a dragon? – watched them scurry, then stare at it in utter terror, a casually smug gleam in its eye.

“Don’t just stand there!” Tullius shouted, his sword drawn. “Kill that thing!”

As soon as it looked like the soldiers might be regrouping, the dragon opened its mouth and shouted again. The very air seemed to shake and everyone fell to the ground. Even Leto, still kneeling before the chopping block, fell to one side, his vision blurring. He writhed on the ground, unable to tell up from down. His vision blackened completely but he could vaguely hear Tullius ordering the guards to get the townspeople to safety, which was the only way he knew he hadn’t passed out.

Leto managed to blink his vision clear enough that he could make out the difference between ground and sky. He tried to remember where his feet were and could hear the panicked struggle between the dragon and the soldiers escalating. It was a one-sided slaughter.

“How in Oblivion do we kill this thing?!”

He finally got his legs under him and scrambled to his knees. He blinked and shook his head, trying to clear his eyes of grit and keep himself from passing out as his already injured head pounded with the new magic-and-beast induced chaos.

“Hey, kinsman.”

He heard a voice somewhere in front of him and turned to look. The blue-clad blur came into focus and he realised it was Ralof speaking to him. His hands were free of the leather bindings and gesturing for Leto to come to him.

“Get up!” He signalled urgently, eyes scanning the sky. “Come on, the gods won’t give us another chance!”

Leto stumbled toward him on shaking legs. The flaming balls of stone were still raining from the sky and exploding into smaller missiles. An Imperial soldier was sneaking up behind Ralof while he was distracted. He’d just silently drawn his sword when one of the flaming stones landed on him, crushing him with a sickening noise. His armour burst into flames but he didn’t make a sound. He was already dead, insides open to the air from the boulder’s explosion.

Leto made it to Ralof, who had paid no more mind to the crushed and burning Legionnaire than to make sure he was no more threat. The Stormcloak could see that Leto was still in shock from the dragon’s shouting and very nearly losing his head. He scruffed the back of his tattered shirt and dragged him through the door of a nearby tower where it seemed the surviving rebels had holed up.

As soon as they were through Ralof and Ulfric Stormcloak slammed the door shut. Leto glanced around the room and saw that there were three more Stormcloaks inside; two injured and one tending to them. Leto thought he could hear another further up in the tower, but couldn’t see them through the rock dust shaken loose by the dragon’s magic and the smoke that had followed he and the young Stormcloak in.

Ralof slumped his back against the door and looked to Jarl. “Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing? Could the legends be true?”

He moved away from the door and into the room, the very image of collectedness and leadership as he squared his shoulders and glanced over the ragged band that was all that had managed to get to safety. “Legends don’t burn down villages.”

The tower suddenly shook, more rock dust falling from above them.

“I don’t think anyone told the black beast that,” Leto murmured, earning him a glare from the Jarl of Windhelm.

The young Nord had heard stories of dragons from his mother; giant scaly beasts that had once held dominion over the skies – over all of Tamriel – and when they spoke the magic words for fire and ice, that was what was unleashed on their next breath. As a child, Leto had thought it was just fantasy. Especially when her stories had told of them being heralds of the end of the world. The largest creatures he’d ever seen had been frost trolls, and while their breath was powerful, it was hardly likely to rain fire down from the sky. It could knock a man out, no doubt about that, but that was for entirely different reasons. So for a creature to be more than twice the size, and their breath that powerful, they simply had to be fantasy.

Dragons were supposed to be the stuff of legends, symbols of gods and their avatars. Or myths told by the drunken old soldiers in the tavern to frighten children into behaving. Just like the stories of the walking dead that guarded the ancient ruins on the mountainside. Three of the shrines hidden in Leto’s family’s basement had born the likeness of a dragon; Akatosh, Alduin and the ancient Nordic Dragon God – though many debates were held between Leto’s mother and the priest of Arkay that they were all the same entity, just altered a little as time and people changed, or perhaps even different aspects of the same being.

But no matter how anyone looked at it, dragons were _not_ supposed to swoop down from the sky and lay waste to towns in a matter of breaths.

“We need to move. Now!” Ulfric ordered.

Ralof grabbed Leto’s arm and nudged him to the stairs. “Up through the tower, let’s go.”

Leto’s mind was too numb with fear to wonder how heading up was a good idea. Instead he allowed himself to be moved. They were halfway up the winding stone staircase when he glanced back at the Stormcloak who was still shoving him onward. His mind had recovered somewhat and he remembered he was still bound, utterly defenceless. And he realised that heading to the top of the tower was the most foolish thing they could be doing. They would be just as bad off as if they were still outside. Perhaps even worse given that they’d have nowhere to run but back down the stairs and the tower would likely crumble on top of them if the dragon landed on it.

“Wait, can you untie my –?”

The wall in front of them suddenly exploded inward, crushing another blue-clad Nord who had been making his way downward to help his comrade keep the ragged young man moving. Leto’s legs crumpled as the tower shook violently and the only thing that stopped him from tumbling back down the hard stairs was Ralof slamming him against the wall.

The ebony head of the same giant beast that had saved them from the headsman’s axe crashed through the hole it had made in the tower wall, knocking more stones loose. Leto swore he almost wet himself when the massive, slit-pupil eye turned to stare at he and Ralof, frozen against the wall in shock. Its maw opened, revealing teeth easily as big as a Redguard’s leg, and its neck craned as it tried to shout fire at the pair.

Leto wasn’t sure what was louder; the two of them screaming or the dragon’s roar, but by the time the heat had stopped searing at their skin, the beast was gone. Ralof was still pressing him into the now-hot stonework, seemingly trying to shield him from danger, but Leto could see over his shoulder. Smouldering in the pile of rubble that had once been part of the wall but was now blocking the way upward, was what was left of the Stormcloak who had been reaching for him to help him climb the stairs. Leto wasn’t sure if he was glad or not that the man’s face was now so disfigured that he couldn’t see any expression on it. Bile was rising up his throat, his breath quickening and heart pounding, as for the third time in so short a span of time he was surrounded by burning and death and powerless to do a thing about it.

He was feeling dizzy, vision swimming and darkening, and wondering with horror if he was about to pass out, when Ulfric Stormcloak appeared on the stairs. He glanced at the destruction and his teeth bared in a snarling curse.

“The two down below are too badly wounded to move on their own.”

“Well, we’re not going further up now, my jarl.” Ralof said, quickly stepping back from Leto.

While Ulfric and the young Stormcloak glanced out through the gaping hole left by the dragon’s head, Leto tried to steady his breath. He really didn’t want to faint in front of a Jarl, even if he was technically now a criminal by Imperial law and didn’t know him from a skeever.

“Hey, kinsman.” Ralof’s hand landing on his shoulder snapped Leto back to his senses.

It was time to escape now. He needed to keep his head and work with the Stormcloaks to escape Helgen and the dragon. He could vomit and pass out later, once he was safe. He gave a small nod to show he had heard, but he didn’t trust his voice not to crack or his stomach not to expel what little it had in it all over his new allies if he opened his mouth.

Ralof gestured through the smoke toward something outside the tower. “See the inn on the other side? Jump through the roof and keep going!”

If he hadn’t been able to see that the Stormcloak was serious, Leto might have burst out laughing. He glanced at the Jarl of Windhelm, then back again. They were both glancing out the gaping hole in the tower’s side, watching what little they could see of the chaos unfolding below.

“Are you out of your damned mind?!”

He’d shouted before he’d even thought about it. He quickly swallowed the bile that had tried to rise and clamped a hand over his own mouth.

“You go first, we’ll follow when we can.” Ralof grabbed his arm and gently shoved him toward the opening.

Leto blinked against the smoke and grit floating through the air. The inn was easily within jumping distance, but that was little comfort. The roof was mostly missing, and what remained of the wooden and thresh structure was in flames. There was no way he was going to escape without being burned at the very least. He would be amazed if the broken structure could actually survive his weight landing on the broken floorboards of the upper floor.

This was insane! But with the two rebels behind him and soldiers and dragons outside, he didn’t see much choice. At least if he went through the burning inn he’d have some small amount of cover… if he survived the landing and no one spotted his leap. But then where would he go? There was nothing but open ground beyond the destroyed building, and his hands were still bound tightly. He drew a deep breath when he felt Ralof nudge him again.

As he climbed over the broken stones, he couldn’t help but think he was being used as dragon fodder. He was the only one who wasn’t a Stormcloak and no one had untied him. Sending him out of the sanctuary of the tower first, completely defenceless, and with nowhere to run definitely didn’t seem to be for Leto’s benefit. And what kind of an insane plan was leaping barefoot onto the destroyed roof of a burning tavern anyway? They probably thought that while the dragon and the Imperials were busy chasing him around the town or chewing on his bones they could all escape.

He was the only one of them that was expendable.

Steeling himself for what was to come, Leto pushed off the ledge. He’d been aiming to land inside the inn, providing him with at least some cover from any eyes that might notice a hulking Nord leaping between buildings in the chaos, but in his weakened state he fell short. He landed on the smouldering thresh of an awning and instantly felt flames licking at his ankle. With a cry of pain he scrambled for any purchase he could and clawed his way to the exposed beams. He could feel the roof threatening to give way under his weight, the heat beneath him saying that if he didn’t move quickly, he’d fall to a grizzly and painful death.

He managed to grab onto a beam and hauled himself onto it. He tried to push himself over with his legs, but his foot broke through the thresh and he almost tumbled off the sloped awning altogether. With a curse he managed to drag himself into the relative safety of what used to be the inn’s upper floor. Struggling to breathe through the choking smoke and ash that billowed around him, he hauled himself to his feet. As he raced toward the only way down he could see that wasn’t on fire – a hole in the floor on the other side of the roof – he glanced back over his shoulder. The thresh awning he’d just landed on was now engulfed in an inferno. Through the towering flames and thick, black smoke, he could just make out the vacant hole in the tower he’d leapt from. Ulfric Stormcloak and Ralof were no longer there.

He didn’t have time to dwell on what that might mean, the flames had caught a taste for the wooden building and were rapidly devouring it.

Leto raced for the hole in the floorboards before it could be swallowed and leave him stranded. He leapt down, landing in an unceremonious heap on the lower floor. Desperate adrenalin was the only thing that had him managing to get his feet back under him. He staggered from the destroyed building, eyes blurred and streaming from the smoke.

He was completely and utterly disoriented. What had, not moments ago, been a stable military outpost-town was now a shattered and blazing chaos. Screams of panic and pain broke through the sounds of crumbling stone buildings and the roars of the dragon. The orders being hollered by the few Imperials in command left were mostly drowned out, but one voice cut through enough for Leto to have something to focus on.

A young voice with a heavy Nordic accent, much like his own and Ralof’s, met his ears and he stumbled toward it like it was a life-line. Shattered and heated stones sliced at his barely protected feet as he made his way toward the voice. He wasn’t sure if he wanted it to be a Stormcloak or not, but it was the only thing he had to focus on aside from thick smoke and fire. He could feel his mind closing down.

This was all too much… being plunged into flames and screaming again.

He broke through a cloud of smoke and emerged in a relatively open patch that was likely once part of the main road through the town. He had found the source of the voice; a Legionnaire trying to coax a young boy, cheeks stained with soot and tear-tracks, over to him. The boy seemed to be in shock, his legs unsteady as he made his way over to the soldier. The second he was in arm’s reach, the Nord grabbed him and pulled him behind the smouldering remains of a destroyed building. Leto had little choice but to join them, and another man who was crumpled on the ground, bleeding heavily beneath hastily wrapped bandages, as the giant black beast slammed into the ground where the boy had been seconds before. Its eyes searched around for someone to burn or eat – or both – and it was only sheer luck that Leto managed to make it to the group before he was spotted.

When Leto caught a glimpse of the Legionnaire’s face, he felt his heart sink. It was the one from the foot of his cart, the one with the list of names. He looked around for somewhere else to run to; anywhere had to be better than staying with the man that had been complicit to his unjust execution.

The soldier blinked in shock, then his face softened, his weapon arm lowering when he realised that the bound Nord posed him no threat. “Still alive prisoner? Keep close to me if you want to stay that way.”

Those words broke through some of his shock. He couldn’t help the sarcastic snort that escaped him. _Aye, that worked so well last time_. He wasn’t sure if he’d said that thought aloud, but either way the soldier glanced away awkwardly.

The dragon’s attention was drawn by approaching Legionnaires. The hail of arrows and magic were enough to encourage the beast to take wing and continue its assault from the sky again. The soldiers chased its shadow across the ruined town, leaving the group alone. The Nordic Legionnaire was talking to the boy and the wounded man, but Leto wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy tracking the dragon’s massive form across the sky, watching as it rose further in the air, then swooped down to breathe fire over soldiers and barely-standing buildings alike. It looked so… graceful. It was almost entrancing the way the flickering of the flames glistened on its midnight scales…

He felt a grip on his upper arm and wrenched himself back. The soldier held up the hand that had been wrapped around his bicep in a placating gesture. “Easy. We need to move.”

Leto nodded and held up his bound wrists. “Can you cut me free?”

But the soldier was already moving away. With a curse, Leto followed, trying to ignore the fact he was being led through another burning building. Beams and pieces of what was left of wall crumbled around them. The soldier’s heavy armour protected him, but Leto could feel his skin burning with every footstep, every accidental bump against something unseen through the choking smoke and ash.

They emerged from the smouldering remains of someone’s home to the sight of more destruction and the soldier steered them down a path between another burning building and a wall. All Leto could focus on was the sight of a charred corpse that had been laying in the one they had just left, skin still blistering and the stench of burning flesh seeping through the smoke.

“Stay close to the wall!” the soldier shouted and slammed Leto back against it.

The stunned Nord gave a small nod and stumbled along behind the soldier as they inched forward, feeling the rough stonework scraping his back as he moved.

There was no warning before the dragon landed on the wall above their heads. Leto’s shriek of terror was swallowed by the beast’s roar. This time he _knew_ he was hearing words. There was no mistaking it this close. One of its wings was gripping the wall for balance, barbs mere inches from Leto’s face as a gout of flame poured over the area in front of the two Nords. He could see the individual scales that covered the limb.

For what felt like an eternity, Leto was pinned against rough stone, feeling searing heat against his unprotected skin. Finally the dragon took off, the wall – the only thing keeping the young Nord from falling over – shuddering at the motion.

He was staring wide-eyed ahead of him, but he wasn’t seeing anything. The soldier’s fist clenched around the front of his shirt and tugged roughly. Leto stared down at the hand, and that was when he broke.

He started laughing, unable to stop, even though the soldier was shouting something at him. With the chaos Leto’s life had become; losing his family and nearly his head, a mythical creature that – depending on who was asked – never existed at all or should be extinct… the realisation that made Leto finally crack under the strain was that he was running for his life in his _bedclothes_. They were no longer recognisable as such, but nevertheless he knew that he was running around, desperately trying to stay alive, in his nightwear. He supposed he should thank the Divines he actually wore bedclothes. This entire situation could only be made worse if he were running around in nothing, or just a loincloth.

The soldier’s words finally penetrated his hysterical mind and he took a deep breath. The Nordic Legionnaire was yelling that they needed to move, that he had to regroup with the general and join the defence. He was repeating that if Leto wanted to stay alive, he should stick with him. He’ll make sure that General Tullius doesn’t finish the job of his execution until they find out the truth behind why Leto was at the Stormcloak camp.

Leto still didn’t appreciate how he kept calling him ‘prisoner’. “My name is Leto, not ‘prisoner’.”

The soldier ignored him and kept hauling him along with him until he was sure Leto would follow of his own accord. The young Nord didn’t feel as though he had much choice. He was completely lost in the maze of destruction, whereas this soldier seemed to know where he was going.

They finally reached an open area that was less choked with smoke than everywhere else and Leto felt himself coughing with the sudden rush of cleaner air. He staggered to a halt to try and catch his breath while the soldier kept moving. He met up with a dishevelled, but still completely in control General Tullius. Leto heard the general order the Legionnaire into the keep, saying that they were retreating.

The brown haired Nord saluted and gestured for Leto to follow. On legs that felt like they were as stable as the buildings around him, the young man followed. The general shot him a glare, but then turned his attention back to his men and the dragon. As he moved away, he started barking orders again, managing to keep his squad on task when it was clear most wanted to run for the hills. All of their efforts seemed to do nothing more than merely amuse the dragon.

Leto and his escort’s journey came to an abrupt stop as a familiar blue-clad Nord came running through an archway, the archers and mages standing on the walkway above on the wall and on the ground completely ignored him in favour of attacking the dragon still wreaking havoc, even though the town was destroyed.

“Ralof!” the soldier roared. “You damned traitor! Out of my way!”

The Stormcloak skidded to a stop and the axe he had drawn was now trained on the Legionnaire. “We’re escaping, Hadvar. You’re not stopping us this time.”

The soldier bared his teeth, his own weapon pointed at Ralof. "Fine! I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

They stood glaring at each other, weight shifting as they prepared to attack, waiting for the other to move first and give them an opening.

There was a roar overhead and they both glanced up. They seemed to realise that escaping the dragon’s wrath was more pressing than killing each other, and with a final snarl they went to different doors of the nearby keep. They both called for Leto to follow and the young Nord stood rooted to the spot for a moment. He had the choice between going with the man who had been complicit in his unjust execution, or the man who had used him as dragon fodder. He could see no other exits through the smoke and soldiers.

All in all, things were looking bleak.

“Kinsman! C’mon Leto, or that dragon will kill you if the Imperials don’t do it first!”

Ralof’s use of his name – the first use he had heard in what felt like an eternity – settled the internal debate raging inside the young Nord’s head. The Stormcloak might have used him as bait, but now he was alone and looking to help him. It hadn’t been him who had been sending him to the chopping block to die in the first place. And if the Imperials really were retreating, then that meant going with the soldier would soon see him in the company of General Tullius and possible the captain who had ordered his death without even a second thought. That idea made the young Nord’s stomach clench. The general would likely just execute him, rather than let him escape with them. And even though the soldier he’d been following had said he’d convince the general to let him live, he highly doubted he’d protest any more to him being killed than he had with his captain if the Imperial decided otherwise.

The soldier – Hadvar? – seemed to read his expression and gave one final attempt to convince him to follow. “With me, prisoner. Let's go! I can cut you loose inside the keep. You can’t escape with that traitor!”

Leto started moving toward Ralof. “That traitor wasn’t going to chop my head off for no reason.”

Ralof was holding the keep door open and shoved Leto inside as soon as he was in arm’s reach. They slammed the door shut behind them and took a moment to lean against it and catch their breath. As soon as the Stormcloak’s eyes opened, they fell on a slumped figure on the other side of the circular room.

He rushed over and dropped to his knees, rolling the clearly dead Stormcloak onto his back. “We’ll meet again in Sovngarde, brother,” he murmured as he ran a hand over the dead man’s face to close the staring, sightless eyes.

Leto had approached and was glancing over his shoulder. There was an obvious wound to the dead Nord’s stomach. With the blood trail that led from the door to the body, it was clear he’d been stabbed, dragged himself inside the keep and finally succumbed to his wound.

Ralof took a deep, steadying breath before rising to his feet. “Looks like we’re the only ones who made it.” His eyes widened and he scrubbed a filthy hand down his face. “That thing was a dragon. No doubt. Just like the children’s stories and legends. The harbingers of the End Times.”

Leto only stared at him wordlessly. He’d heard the tales of dragons; how they had once ruled over Tamriel. Then the stories seemed to change, with no explanation and a massive gap in time, to something like prophesy, saying that if one saw a dragon, it meant the end of the world was coming. As a child, he’d loved those stories… now he wished they had just stayed between the pages of his mother’s books.

Ralof collected himself and glanced around. “We’d better get moving.” He looked over his new companion and seemed to be noticing for the first time he was still restrained. “Come here, let me see if I can get those bindings off.”

Leto bit back the remark of ‘it’s about time’, fearing that Ralof would leave him tied up and helpless. When he drew a dagger, he gulped. He was glad he’d kept his teeth together. It might just be Imperial propaganda that had made its way to his village, but he’d heard that the Stormcloaks were likely to gut a man just for looking at him wrong.

The Nord sliced through the leather strips around Leto’s wrists and then resheathed the dagger.

Anger bubbled up inside him as Ralof smiled and said ‘there you go’ as though he hadn’t left him bound to run around Helgen while it was being destroyed. The second his hands were free and the dagger out of sight, Leto forgot his concern about being gutted or abandoned and launched his curled fist into the Stormcloak’s jaw. The young man staggered back, staring at his ragged companion in shock as he shook his aching hand, cursing in pain.

“What in the name of Talos was that for?!”

Leto’s teeth bared as he massaged his bruised and raw wrists, trying to work circulation back into them and ignore his throbbing knuckles. Damn the man had a solid jaw!

“That was for using me as bait!”

“Bait? What are you talking about?”

He took a step toward the blue-clad Nord who was touching his reddening jaw gingerly. His fist was curled again. “You sent me out ahead of you so that I would draw the attention of the dragon and the Imperials! You didn’t even untie my hands, you bastard!”

“I-I’m sorry, kinsman. I didn’t think. We were all kind of busy at the time.”

Leto growled and lowered his arm. “Forget it, we need to get out of here.”

Ralof relaxed and gave a chuckle. This young Nord had fire… and a decent right arm for someone who had clearly been through Oblivion before staggering into the Imperial’s ambush.

He gave a nod at his fallen comrade. “You may as well take Gunjar’s gear. He won’t be needing it anymore.”

Leto nodded and crouched down. The idea of looting a dead body, especially one who was clearly a friend and brother-in-arms to his new companion, turned his stomach a little. But he knew he needed armour and a weapon if he had any hope of escaping with Ralof, especially if they came to a fight.

“What happened to your other friends?” he asked as he started stripping the body with as much care and dignity as possible.

Ralof let out a dejected sigh. “I don’t know. After you jumped onto the inn’s roof, the awning went up and we knew we couldn’t follow. We had no choice but to go back out the front door. The dragon and the Imperial’s attacking separated us… I don’t know what happened to them after that.”

Leto could see the sadness and fear drawing heavily on Ralof’s shoulders and looked away uncomfortably as he pulled on the dead Stormcloak’s boots over his tattered footwraps. He’d considered removing them, but the idea of peeling them away from his blistered and bloody feet was just as appealing as donning his new armour. He hissed in discomfort at the pressure on his wounds.

He could see Ralof from the corner of his eye, watching him with something like sympathy creasing his brow. Before he could speak, Leto interrupted him.

“I’m sure your Jarl will be fine. From what I’ve heard, he’s pretty resourceful.”

Ralof smiled, appreciating his new companion’s attempt at reassurance more than he’d admit aloud. He helped Leto get to his feet, steadying the younger man when he wobbled on weakening legs. Leto gave him a shy smile and the Stormcloak stepped back.

“You alright?”

“Aye,” Leto murmured, “just a little light headed. It’s been a rough day… week… I don’t even know how long.”

Ralof passed him the armour and he pulled it on over what was left of his nightclothes. He was glad that the light cuirass didn’t have any complicated buckles or plates. He didn’t think he had the coordination to manage with them at the moment.

The armour only just fit him. It was tight around the shoulders and chest, but it would do. Leto was large, even by Nordic standards. At six-foot-three he was taller than average and his apprenticeship with his father, the village blacksmith, had built broad shoulders and a barrelled chest that had many fooled into thinking he was a decent warrior. As he tugged the armour down in a fruitless effort to try and force it to sit better, he realised that all the nights spent with his father and friends at the local inn, drinking the barman out of his mead supplies, hadn’t helped to narrow his build any. If he was lucky the borrowed armour wouldn’t tear at the shoulders. If he was _very_ lucky he wouldn’t suffocate in it if there was a fight.

Ralof looked him over and gave an approving nod. Gunjar had been a brother in the Stormcloak army and he’d be proud to see such a strong Nord man donning his armour to escape what passed for Imperial justice. He didn’t seem to notice Leto’s discomfort at wearing a dead man’s armour, the way he fingered the tear in the stomach that was still sticky with its former owner’s blood. Nor did he seem to notice that the well-worn fabric wanted to burst at being forced over a body too large for it.

He handed over Gunjar’s axe and patted Leto on the shoulder. “Give that axe a few swings, I’m going to see if I can find some way out of here,” he said and moved toward a barred door.

Leto stared thickly at the weapon in his hand for a moment, before collecting himself and following Ralof’s suggestion. While the Stormcloak inspected the barred door, he swung the axe, trying to adjust to the feel of it, the weight in his palm. Before the bandits, he’d never used a weapon to kill a man… only testing them to make sure he and their father had made them well, or helping to kill the odd wild critter that stumbled into the village in search of food. But even then it had been mostly just swords. The only axes he had experience with were for chopping wood. The warrior’s axe felt strange but like the armour it would do and was far better than bound hands and bedclothes.

“This one’s locked,” Leto heard Ralof growl from the door. “Let’s see about that gate.”

He straightened up and moved across to the other side of the room. Leto followed him to the gate, keeping the axe out and ready. They both examined it for a moment before Ralof slammed his palm against it in frustration.

“Damn. No way to open this from our side.”

“Then how do we get out of here?” Leto couldn’t keep the fear from creeping into his voice. There was no way in Oblivion he was going back outside. Especially not that he was now dressed as a Stormcloak! That would just be painting an even bigger target on his back.

Ralof opened and closed his mouth, at a loss for an answer that didn’t involve leaving the safety of the keep – tenuous and temporary though it may be. Before either of them could even begin to wrack their brains for a solution, the sound of heavy armour clanking and echoing off the stone walls came toward them.

“It’s the Imperials!” Ralof hissed. “Take cover!”

Before he’d even finished the second part, Leto had already ducked to the side and pressed himself against the wall. He could hear voices, it sounded like a captain and another soldier – but not Hadvar like he had expected – over the top of their noisy plate. The captain was trying to get her underling to remain calm, but only seemed to be having mild success.

Leto clutched his axe in both hands and glanced across to Ralof who was on the other side of the gateway as a chain was pulled and the barrier started to rise. The Stormcloak gave him a reassuring nod, but Leto just felt his gut clench. Bile started rise up his throat and for a moment he thought he was going to vomit. He wondered absently how many times he had thought that today.

He knew that when the Imperials came through that opening, there was going to be a fight. There wouldn’t be any avoiding it… but Leto was damned if he wasn’t going to try.

With Ralof watching him in bewilderment, he stepped out of hiding, holding his axe out in a surrendering gesture. “Wait! We don’t have to do this!”

“It’s a Stormcloak!” the captain snarled, eyes blazing with rage.

Before Leto could react, she and her companion charged. The young Nord’s eyes widened and he stumbled back.

“No, wait! We need to work together to get out of this!”

His pleas fell on deaf ears and the only reason the Imperial woman’s sword missed his throat was because Ralof plunged his axe into her back. Leto knew he had no choice, so he lunged at the other soldier and swung wildly with his own axe.

Within a few seconds, both soldiers were dead. Leto cursed and then felt Ralof’s hand on his shoulder.

“Leto… it is Leto, right?”

“Aye,” he murmured.

“We had no choice. It was us or them. They weren’t going to listen… but it was a good thing to try.”

Leto took a deep breath and nodded. “Aye, I know. And I had to try.” He glanced up at his companion. “Do you think either of them have a key to that door?”

Ralof blinked in surprise at the sudden calm that had come over the young Nord. He had a bad feeling that he might beg sinking into shock. He’d experienced the same himself after his first real battle… but there was nothing to do for it now. They needed to escape, and the boy was clearly resilient; if what he’d said in the death cart about his village being destroyed and him being the only survivor was true – and he had no reason to doubt his word – then he’d recover just fine.

The idea of looting another body, one that he had killed himself no less, made Leto’s stomach try to rebel again, but he managed to keep it down. He had to keep calm and level headed if he wanted to survive this nightmare.

“Found it!” Ralof grinned and held up a ring of keys.

Leto couldn’t help but grin back. They had a key; they had an escape. They were going to make it! As they rose to their feet, both feeling a renewed energy as hope flooded them with adrenalin, Leto tossed aside the axe and traded it for the Imperial captain’s sword.

Ralof raised an eyebrow and Leto felt his face flush in embarrassment. It hadn’t occurred to him how disrespectful he was being in throwing away a dead man’s weapon.

“I… uh… I’m better with a sword,” he stammered.

Ralof chuckled. “I hope so, kinsman, because you were lousy with that axe.”

Leto scowled at the Stormcloak’s back as he followed him toward the locked door. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

It took so long to find the right key on the ring, that Leto was feeling his frayed nerves begin to eat away at his new-found calm. His heart was racing and his stomach roiling as he watched Ralof methodically insert a key, try to turn, curse, then move onto the next.

When finally the click of the lock opening echoed off the walls, Leto thought his heart might explode. He and the young Stormcloak traded a fierce grin as the latter pushed the door open and drew his axe.

“Let’s go. The tunnels that run under the keep should have us free of this place in no time.”

As though mocking his hopeful words, the whole building shook and rained rock dust down onto them. Both Nords glanced up instinctually when they heard the dragon’s roar, then looked at each other.

“We need to move before that dragon brings this place down on our heads.”

Leto nodded. “Lead on.”

Ralof snatched the keys from the lock and the pair raced into the next corridor, almost able to taste their freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are enjoying. Please let me know what you think, even if it's criticism. (So long as it's constructive. I don't like trolls in or out of Skyrim.)


	4. Escape Helgen

The two Nords sprinted through the corridors, barely keeping their footing on the slick moss that covered the stones as the whole building shook around them. They hadn’t been running for long when the sound of urgent voices echoed near them.

More Imperials.

Without even needing to speak, both slowed and decided to move past the room the soldiers were in. They were too deep in their worried conversation of what they should do to hear the two lightly armoured men outside the half-open door.

The tower trembled around them and there was the earth-shattering boom of stone giving way. Leto glanced up in time to see the ceiling cracking, directly over Ralof’s head. He reached out and scruffed the back of the Stormcloak’s armour and hauled him away as the stones collapsed.

Ralof looked back to the young man who had saved him, wide eyed and heart hammering against his ribs. “Damn, that dragon doesn’t give up easy,” he murmured, giving a nod of thanks.

Leto returned it, then moved his eyes to the door on their left. They now had no choice but to face the Imperials. Adjusting his grip on his sword, he and Ralof crept to opposite sides of the doorway. Inside the room they could hear the two Imperials almost panicking about the din they had just heard, but neither were brave enough to go out and investigate. They seemed determined to find anything they could inside the room and move on.

Leto and Ralof traded another nod, then burst into the room. The two Imperials whipped around, instantly drawing their weapons, and Leto was dismayed to see that one was a heavily armoured Legate. He had resigned himself to the knowledge that any soldier they came across he would be forced to kill. The idea of ending the life of someone who was just doing their job and likely as terrified as him about the whole situation made his heart ache with guilt, but he didn’t want to die here. And there was no chance any Legionnaire would listen to him now he was wearing the rebels’ blue armour. The soldiers from the before had proven that.

Being the bigger of the two hollering Nords, and possibly because he was wielding an Imperial sword, the Legate charged Leto. He managed to duck the first swing of the man’s greatsword and slashed out with his own weapon to leave a deep gash along the man’s thigh. When he growled in pain, Leto couldn’t help but marvel at the fact the Imperial’s ran around wearing skirts. Especially in a place like Skyrim where the winds were liable to give unexpected and powerful gusts. Surely they’d wind up with those steel-reinforced leather pleats up around there ears and snow up their –

“Agh!” The Legate’s greatsword sliced into his shoulder, easily penetrating the threadbare Stormcloak cuirass.

Leto staggered back a few steps, instinctually pressing his empty hand against the wound and feeling warm, sticky blood seeping between his fingers. The Legate was smirking at him and gearing up for another strike.

“You won’t leave Helgen alive!”

Leto felt rage wash over him and lunged forward. The soldier was probably only proud of himself for managing to wound a ‘rebel’, but his smug look reminded Leto of the bandit that had been taunting him before he’d been knocked unconscious in his burning village.

With the hulking Nord swinging his sword wildly at him, the Legate’s smile dropped and he held his blade up to deflect the savage blows. Leto spotted his chance and swept his borrowed sword under the soldier’s guard, driving it into a weak point in the heavy armour on the Imperial’s side. Having been trained as a blacksmith and having seen Legate armour from some of the Great War veterans-turned-guards gave Leto a keen insight as to its weak points… of which there were unfortunately few. It was the Imperial’s turn to stumble back and he snarled at the ‘rebel’ that had dared to attack him. He rose his weapon to make a sideways sweep to try and take Leto’s head off in one strike. The heavy weight of the large weapon on top of already being exhausted from the chaos Helgen had become slowed him down and before he’d even started swinging, the young Nord had moved and was driving his sword into that same weak point in his armour.

The greatsword slipped from the Legate’s limp fingers and he crumpled to the stone. Ralof dispatched the soldier he’d been fighting with a vicious strike to his chest, burying the axe head into the man’s ribcage, before glancing at Leto.

Both the Nords were breathing heavily and bleeding from new gashes. But after looking over each other and themselves they realised it was nothing serious.

They took the chance to look around at the room they were in while they caught their breath.

“A storeroom. See if you can find any potions.” Ralof glanced over his shoulder, grimacing. “We’ll need them.”

Leto nodded and started hunting around. The room was full of cupboards, barrels and sacks. He spotted a blue potion on a shelf and went for it, picking it up and trying to figure out what it was for. Potions had been his mother’s area of expertise and the only thing he’d learned from her teachings – despite her best efforts – was that healing potions were red. He tucked the small bottle into a fold in his armour, wishing he had a bag or something to use instead. One trip and the glass would shatter and add to his growing list of injuries. And knowing his luck, the potion would actually be some kind of poison.

The next thing that caught his attention _was_ a healing potion. He tucked in next to the blue one. Then his eyes fell onto the much larger bottle beside it; wine. He glanced across the room to make sure that Ralof was busy searching and grabbed the bottle by its neck. He ducked out of sight into a corner and tore the cork out with shaking fingers. He much preferred mead, but he was in no position or condition to be picky.

His nerves were frayed, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to be able to hold himself together. He held the bottle to his mouth and gulped down as many mouthfuls as he could until he needed air. Panting, he swiped a filthy hand over his mouth and put the bottle back on its shelf. He immediately felt his stomach roil in protest. The last proper meal he had had was dinner with his family the night of the bandit attack, and since then he hadn’t been able to keep down what meagre sustenance he had found… not to mention there had been a constant battle with his gut to keep from throwing up.

Leto took deep, steadying breaths, begging his stomach to calm down. Downing a half-bottle of wine was probably one of the more foolish things he could have done, but he needed the courage. He didn’t plan on getting himself blind drunk – he’d save that for later when he was safe – but having a belly full of alcohol would surely help to bolster his courage… if he could stop it from coming back up.

Before Ralof could wonder what he was doing, he continued his search. When he discovered a barrel containing several potions, he found himself really wishing he had a bag. Frowning in thought – it was becoming harder to think, and he knew it wasn’t just because of the wine – he tried to figure out a solution. It came when he stumbled and kicked a sack on the floor. He emptied it out, sending wormy apples rolling across the blood-slickened floor.

When one bumped against Ralof’s foot he glanced back and saw Leto depositing the potions into the rough hessian. What the younger Nord didn’t realise, is that the Stormcloak also saw him slipping the bottle of wine in along with them.

“Done?” he asked, trying to keep the smile off his face. When Leto straightened up and nodded he started moving toward the door. “Let’s get moving.”

When the young man caught up, he glanced at the sack. “Looks like you found more than I did. I found a minor healing potion and a lot of potatoes.”

“Aye, I found a few healing ones… and a whole lot more that I don’t know what they do.”

Ralof frowned. He wasn’t much better with potions than his companion. “What colour?”

“Blue and green.”

“Magicka and stamina,” Ralof said. Those, at least, he was familiar with. All the Stormcloak camps were stocked with potions thanks to their loyal alchemists and the raids on Imperial supply caravans.

Leto simply nodded. The magicka ones were of no use to him; he couldn’t cast a spell to save himself and nor did he have any desire to learn. Magic use went against the Nordic way; it was for those who couldn’t wield a sword or axe. The stamina potions on the other hand… he was tempted to throw a few of those down to chase the wine he’d drunk. There was only so long a man could go without rest and under constant stress – even a Nord – before he simply couldn’t handle any more.

Ralof was already moving though, and Leto didn’t want to show any more weakness than he had already, despite how he may be feeling physically. Just as they were stepping out into the corridor, there was a sound behind them and Leto whipped around, fearing more Imperials. It turned out to be nothing more than more dust and small chunks of stone falling from the ceiling.

It also turned out he had spun too quickly and stumbled into the wall. The room swirled in a sickening array of blurred colours and he found himself sliding to the floor, unable to tell up from down. Ralof was at his side in seconds, helping to ease him into a sitting position.

“Easy,” he urged. With gentle hands he brushed Leto’s sweat soaked hair from his face, cringing at the nasty head wounds that had started bleeding again at some point. “Maybe you should drink one of those healing potions. You’ve taken a good few cracks to the head recently and you’re bleeding.”

Leto snorted a dry laugh. “Aye… but my sister always said there was nothing important in there anyway.”

At the mention of his sister, he felt a surge of grief bubbling inside him, wrenching his heart like a jagged blade. Sleep deprivation, dehydration and hunger were not only making him woozy but were sending his emotions into unpredictable turmoil. Maybe that hit of wine hadn’t been such a bright idea when piled on top of every other stress. He brought a dirty hand up to his face and slouched in an attempt to collect himself before he broke down into childish tears in front of the Stormcloak.

It was bad enough that he was woefully useless in this situation, but bursting into grief-stricken tears would likely brand him a milk-drinker once and for all to Ralof… and he’d probably just leave him behind.

“Drink one of the potions, Leto,” the Stormcloak said gently.

It didn’t take a scholar to realise that his companion was reaching the end of his physical limitations. It was a miracle he’d made it this far, now that he was given the chance to study those head wounds. The unkempt and tangled mess of his braided blonde hair had hidden them up until that point, but now the two separate blows were obvious.

“Aye,” Leto murmured and dug around in the sack. He found one and downed it in a single gulp, feeling his stomach protest.

A warmth rushed through him and he felt some of his aches and pains ease. He was by no means back to full strength, and having some of the damage to his body repaired didn’t help recover his energy, but when he glanced back up at Ralof, he was collected once more.

He opened his mouth to thank the Stormcloak for his understanding and help, but kept quiet when he heard a cry from further into the keep; toward where they had been heading before Leto had needed to rest. The two Nords glanced at each other, then leapt to their feet, weapons at the ready.

They raced toward the sound, which was now increasing in volume. There was clearly a fight going on.

“Troll’s blood! It’s a torture room,” Ralof gasped as he swung around the corner, boots skidding on the mossy stones.

Leto rounded the corner behind him and felt his blood boil and freeze at the same time. Down the short slope, he could see part of the room, but that part was enough. On the left hand wall was a skeleton hanging from shackles, almost like some kind of macabre decoration and held together only by sinew. He could see cages nearby. Any prisoner held inside them would have been able to see that skeleton, a threat of what their future held.

There was no hesitation when they saw a flash of blue battling with a magic wielding man dressed in Imperial armour and a leather hood. Both Nords charged down the slope, roaring their fury. This torture chamber might belong to the Empire, the lawful rulers of the land, but no one was going to know that he’d helped kill these monsters, and it being ‘lawful’ didn’t justify it in Leto’s mind. There was no justification for chaining a man up and deliberately trying to break their spirit for your own uses. Gaol he could understand; it was necessary to punish criminals. And beating the snot out of another person in a fight when they could defend themselves, or likewise if it was a thief you’d caught in your home and wanted to know who’d sent them, how they knew about your valuables, was fine – he’d done it himself a few years back when he’d caught a thief in his family’s cellar… but to tie someone down on a rack, or to burn and slice away at their flesh while they were helpless…

No. It didn’t matter what reasons a person tried to justify it with; torture was unnatural and unforgivable. Men should always have control of their own minds and no one had the right to take that away. And anyone who dedicated their lives to shattering another man’s will would get no mercy from Leto, no matter who gave them the ‘authority’ to do so.

The Stormcloak the Imperial torturer had been fighting staggered back into one of the cages and slid to the floor, too exhausted or wounded to get back up. Leto didn’t pause to think, he simply hacked wildly at the torturer’s back. Before he had the chance to spin around and cast lightning at him he drove his sword deep between the man’s shoulder-blades.

He whipped around, burning with fury and searching for the other Legionnaire. He’d barely spotted him when he felt the lightning spell hit him square it the chest. He screamed as his body jerked uncontrollably, unable to move or defend himself. Even though the agony that made him feel like his veins were on fire only lasted mere seconds, it felt like an eternity. Ralof and another Stormcloak cut the torturer-mage down, ending his spell and letting Leto fall to his knees.

He was still trembling and aching when he felt Ralof’s hand on his shoulder. The Stormcloak looked a little stunned by the fury he’d seen in his companion, but was glad all the same. The two other rebel they had rescued likely would have died without them, and Ralof wasn’t sure he alone would have been enough to turn the tide of the fight against mages.

“You alright, kinsman?”

Leto nodded and let the other haul him back to his feet. He glanced toward the Stormcloak he’d seen crumple against the cage and breathed a sigh of relief that he was alive, being helped by a female comrade.

“Aye, you?”

“Aye.” Ralof shot him a grin, his own flood of relief at finding two more siblings-in-arms alive and relatively unscathed making him feel a little giddy. “I thought you said you were good with a sword.”

Leto couldn’t help but chuckle. “I said I was better than with an axe… not that I was actually any good. And I got one of the bastards, didn’t I?”

The young Stormcloak eyed the corpse in Legion armour slumped awkwardly against the door of the cage, face pressed against the iron-grid bars. “Can’t argue with that.” He turned to his fellow rebels. “Are there any others with you? Have you seen Jarl Ulfric?”

The female shook her head. “No. We’ve been inside the keep for a while, but we came across a large patrol of Imperials further on and tried to double back… these monsters must have come into the keep shortly after us though. They caught us off guard. Have… have you seen the jarl?”

“When the dragon first attacked we took shelter inside one of the towers. He was fine then, but we were separated while trying to make it to the keep.”

She nodded and seemed to be trying to convince herself that he would be fine. One didn’t become the leader of a rebellion and earn themselves the honour of being called the true High King if they were easy to kill. Her eyes fell on Leto and the young Nord found himself shifting uncomfortably under her scrutinising gaze.

“Who’s this? I don’t recognise him… but he wears the armour. Do we have reinforcements?”

Pulled from his own wonderings about the Jarl’s safety by the glimmer of hope in her voice, Ralof glanced at Leto, then at his comrades. “No, this is Leto. He was the one who stumbled into our camp last night and got thrown into the carts along with us. He needed armour, so he’s taken one of our fallen’s.”

The female nodded approvingly after looking him over. Leto felt his face flushing as he felt like a piece of merchandise in a shop with the eyes of her and the other Stormcloak sizing him up.

“We should keep moving,” Ralof said, sensing his companions increasing discomfort. “Tullius has ordered the Imperials to retreat. And the only place they’ve got to go is the same way as us. I’d rather not have to worry about dealing with a hoard of those faithless dogs.”

Both Stormcloaks gave a nod, and the woman wrapped the other wounded rebel’s arm over her shoulder to help support him. “There’s nothing of use in here… unless you have use for lockpicks.”

The group started to move off when Leto’s eyes landed on a knapsack sitting on a table near a pillar. He quickly opened it and dumped the contents of the hessian sack inside. The three Stormcloaks didn’t seem to notice he’d fallen behind, so he quickly tore the cork out of the wine bottle again and finished its contents.

“You alright, kinsman?”

He’d barely disposed of the bottle when Ralof spoke. He was turned back around, standing at the very edge of the room.

“Aye,” Leto held up the knapsack. “Just thought this would be better to carry the potions. Keep my other hand free.”

Ralof gave an approving nod. “Good thinking.”

He suddenly glanced sideways, something catching his attention. Leto gripped his sword and looked around.

“Wait a minute… looks like there’s something in this cage,” Ralof murmured.

The female rebel moved up beside him and followed where he was looking. “Aye, a dead mage. If you’re any good with lockpicks, you could probably open the door and see if he has anything of use. There’s some gold in there, which would definitely be useful, but it’s out of reach.”

Ralof looked at Leto and raised an eyebrow questioningly. The young Nord chuckled. “I’m worse with lockpicks than I am with an axe.”

It disturbed Leto more than he would say that having a dead man, likely rotting away quickly in the dank dampness of the dungeon, didn’t seem to bother the torturers any. And if there had been any more guards stationed there before the chaos outside, it clearly didn’t matter enough to them either to clear the body out. Though, he realised, it probably shouldn’t surprise him given that the place didn’t smell any worse for it, and that their choice of decorations included skeletons dangling from shackles and cages that would leave an occupant with little choice but to sit hunched over with their limbs dangling through the bars.

“No point dwelling then, let’s move on,” Ralof said with a grin.

“Hopefully that group of Imperials we saw before have gone,” the female said as she adjusted her grip on her comrade.

Leto tried to keep himself focused on their destination – freedom – and not look too closely at what they were passing through. The next few minutes of moving through the bowels of the keep had his stomach churning uncomfortably and his teeth grinding. Prisoners were dead inside cages that were too small to house a person half their size. Old and relatively fresh blood splattered the mossy walls and floor to glisten in the flickering light of braziers, and more skeletons were slumped in unnatural positions on the floor, as though a body had simply been left there to decompose for an audience of other prisoners, or the bones were in a fragile pile inside a cage. The entire corridor was thick with stale air, tainted further by death and rot.

The young Nord stayed close to the trio, not wanting to risk being left behind. He wound up walking up the front with Ralof, feeling strangely protective of their new companions. Given that one was badly wounded enough that he needed help moving and hadn’t even spoken yet, Leto knew he wouldn’t be able to defend himself if the Imperials the woman had mentioned hadn’t moved on.

They left the dungeon proper and found themselves in a roughly carved tunnel. The lighting was poor and the group had to slow down or risk twisting their ankles on the uneven ground. The going was made even slower by the wounded Stormcloak struggling to move down the slope. He looked ready to simply drop and Leto felt a stab of empathy. He reached into his knapsack and found one of the few healing potions he and Ralof had been able to locate, chastising himself for not thinking of it sooner.

“Here, drink this.”

The Stormcloak thanked him and downed the potion. Even though it was only minor, it allowed him to start supporting his own weight. After drawing his axe and making sure he could hold it well enough, he nodded and said he was fine to continue.

Leto felt Ralof grip his shoulder and glanced at him. The man gave him an appreciative smile.

They had barely moved any further down the tunnel when they heard faint speaking. It was obviously more Imperials; saying that their orders were to wait for General Tullius to arrive gave that away.

“Damnit, they’re still there,” the female rebel hissed.

“How many?” Ralof asked.

“Four or five… we didn’t stick around in case they saw us.”

Ralof nodded and they kept moving. As they got closer, the voices became clearer.

“I’m not waiting to be killed by a dragon! We should fall back,” a panicked soldier cried.

The trio of Stormcloaks and their fellow escapee rounded a corner and immediately slowed. The tunnel opened out into a larger room, revealing that their female companion had been correct in her judge of numbers; they could hear more voices now and see five people. The Imperials were arguing, the captain in charge losing control of those under his command in their panic.

The group decided to take advantage of their distraction. While their two new companions fired arrows from the opening of the corridor, Ralof and Leto ran into the room, roaring and weapons raised. The first two soldiers fell quickly, too stunned to even have the chance to draw their swords.

The others recovered quickly, one falling back to fire arrows while the captain and the other Imperial closed in to combat what they saw as two Stormcloaks. The fight was short and bloody, both Leto and Ralof receiving gashes, but nothing that adrenalin and desperation to escape couldn’t overcome. They were both charging toward the last soldier standing – the archer – as their comrades came into the room, bows still up but unable to get a clear shot at the Imperial. They busied themselves with checking to make sure the other four were dead.

Suddenly, Ralof cried out and stumbled. Leto could see an arrow protruding from his shoulder, but the archer they were fighting hadn’t fired it. He drove his sword into the soldier and whipped around.

Damnit, there was a sixth Imperial! He was down in a deep ditch of water through the middle of the room and must have been concealed by the higher floor around him with the angle they had been looking into the room from. Without thinking, Leto raced toward the low bridge that ran over the rivulet. He leapt over the rail and swung his bloodied sword at the soldier. The first strike missed as he staggered back, but before he could even think about dropping his bow and reaching for the sword at his hip, Leto had slashed across his gut. When the Imperial fell to his knees, he finished him by driving his sword down through his back.

Before he’d even finished slumping into the water, the young Nord was already moving up the stairs to check on Ralof. By the time he made it, his fellow Stormcloaks had already torn the arrow out. Leto handed over a healing potion and he gulped it down gratefully.

“How much further until we get out of this Talos-forsaken death-trap?” the male Stormcloak asked.

Ralof shook his head. “I don’t know. Let’s check the bodies and see if they have anything useful on them. They might have picked up better supplies from the storeroom.”

They checked, rifling through the pockets, pouches and folds of armour of the Imperials. Searching corpses made Leto feel queasy again, especially since he’d had a hand in killing them. These ones hadn’t attacked first, hadn’t been hurting anyone. They had just been standing there, scared. Leto hadn’t even tried to reason with them. He and Ralof had simply attacked. In the back of his mind, he knew it had been their only option. If the soldiers had have had warning, the fight probably would have turned out very differently… but it still felt wrong on so many levels to be looting their corpses, even if they wouldn’t have hesitated to do the same.

As it turned out, all the Imperials had on them that was of any use was a small amount of coin. They quickly divided it up, then started moving again. The other exit turned out to have a raised bridge. Ralof found hope in the fact it hadn’t been lowered yet, which he shared with his companions. It meant that no one else had been through yet.

“Or the others just raised the bridge after they were gone,” Leto pointed out.

Ralof gave him a dry look and walked toward the bridge. “Let’s just hope that lever works.”

The other two Stormcloaks wanted to stay behind in case Jarl Ulfric or others had managed to get inside the keep and were escaping. After a short argument in which Ralof tried to convince them to come with he and Leto, saying the whole place could come down on their heads at any minute, he gave a defeated sigh and nodded.

“Talos watch over you, friends.”

“And you. I hope we meet again.”

Ralof grabbed Leto’s arm and drew him toward the bridge. “Let’s keep moving. I can almost taste fresh air.”

Leto looked over his shoulder at the two Stormcloaks who were standing at the ready with a clear view of the entrance. They may be waiting for their Jarl, but they knew there was a good chance it might not be him who next emerged from the rough tunnel that led from the torture chamber.

“You don’t want to stay and wait too?”

Ralof shook his head and glanced back at his comrades briefly. “Jarl Ulfric and the others will find a way out. I will meet up with him in Windhelm.”

He pulled the lever and the bridge lowered quickly, landing with a ground-shaking thud on the other side of a ditch that looked like it was part of a sewer system. Leto followed him over the aged wooden boards.

No sooner had they stepped off than the walls around them started to tremble. They both whirled around as the sound of stone giving way echoed around in a deafening roar. The ceiling collapsed where they had been standing mere seconds ago, chunks of rock shattering the bridge and piling up to block the tunnel back into the room they had just left.

Ralof ran to the edge shouting through the pile for his comrades to please answer him. The reply came instantly, shaken but unharmed.

“We’re fine,” the female called. “Keep going.”

Ralof turned to Leto, relief at his comrades’ safety and concern for how they would escape now mingling on his sweaty and dirty face. “The others will have to find another way out… there’s no going back that way now.

Leto nodded numbly. He couldn’t help but think that their only way out was to go back out into the chaos of dragonfire and Imperial soldiers.

“We’d better push on,” Ralof said after collecting himself, “before this whole place comes down on us.”

The path was just as rough as the tunnel beyond the torture room and cells, but the uneven stones were covered in a rapid flow of icy water, making it even more treacherous. For a panicking moment, Leto feared they were trapped when they came across a dead end. A few moments of searching later, they spotted another passage off to their right that had been concealed in the poor lighting.

Desperation for freedom was growing. The new path was free of water and they picked up their pace. By the time they realised the cavern they had sprinted into was filled with egg sacks and cobwebs, the hoard of frostbite spiders had already spotted them. Leto felt a spray of icy venom splash his shoulder and gasped at the painful sickness that immediately set in. It had hit the wound given to him by the Legate’s greatsword and the throbbing ache that he had forgotten about returned with a vengeance.

Another hissing ball of spit flew at him but he managed to dodge it - barely. The swarm of spiders came skittering at he and Ralof and the two hacked away at their swollen bodies, feeling sharp teeth and itching hairs penetrate their threadbare armour and burn their skin. When the last hideous creature finally slumped with a sickening crunching sound, legs still twitching, Leto rested his hands on his knees to catch his breath. His skin felt like he was still outside in Helgen amongst the burning rubble. His shoulder ached with an icy pain as the thick spit-poison still seeped into the wound.

"I hate those damn things,” Ralof groaned. Leto turned to see that he had backed up a few paces from the pile of twitching corpses. His wide eyes met his companion’s and he seemed to try and compose himself and hide his obvious shudder. “Too many eyes, you know?”

“Too much spit, more like,” Leto replied, earning a chuckle from Ralof.

He’d never really had a fear of Skyrim’s oversized arachnids himself. Divines knew that living in the frozen Jerall Mountains had seen enough of the ugly beasts showing up in the village in search of food. He’d just gotten used to them. And the ones that normally showed up were much bigger than what he and Ralof had just fought. Even the largest of the bloated and foul-smelling spiders was smaller than most he’d seen. When he was a child, he’d found a small one – around the size of a hound – and tried to keep it as a pet… until his father put an axe through it when his sister had seen it and let out a blood-curdling scream. Damn, he’d gotten his hide tanned for that.

As Leto straightened up, his shoulder gave a sharp pain and he hissed, clutching it.

“You alright?” Ralof asked, worried.

Leto pulled his hand away and curled his lip in disgust at the thick, silvery handful of slime that came with it. “Aye, just got spat on in a cut.” He wiped his hand on the cleanest, most un-tattered part of his cuirass he could find. What in Ysmir’s name had convinced him that he wanted one as a _pet_ when he was a child?

Ralof stepped closer and examined his companion’s shoulder. “That looks pretty nasty. You know that spit is poisonous, right?”

“Aye, but I feel fine. Just a little woozy… but no worse than before.”

“Maybe you should drink another potion,” Ralof suggested.

The young Nord looked his Stormcloak companion up and down. He didn’t seem to be faring much better; he was covered in gashes and scrapes and beneath the filth of their ordeal, he was likely to be sporting some vivid bruises. And now after their fight with the spiders his arms, just like Leto’s own, were covered in inflamed rashes and had dark, spikey hairs sticking into his skin. They were both covered in foul smelling fluids that Leto didn’t want to even think about, and all of it was in contact with those wounds.

“I don’t think I should waste another potion on it. We don’t know how much further we’ve got to go and there’s only two or three healing potions left.” Leto huffed a dry laugh. “And besides, I think we’re both going to need something a lot stronger with what we’re covered in getting into our wounds.”

Ralof glanced down at himself and grimaced. “Aye, you’re probably right. Let’s keep going. It can’t be much further now.”

They stumbled through the rest of the cavern, pretending they couldn’t see the egg sacks or dangling corpses – human and animal alike – that were little more than desiccated husks hanging from the cave roof and walls. At one point Leto tripped over a web-covered body that gave a squelching sound with the contact. He felt his stomach turn and tasted something sour in his mouth; that one was still juicy. They finally spotted a narrow tunnel and Ralof ran for it, trying to swipe sticky webs off his bare arm and ignore that they’d just been fumbling in the gloom of a cave with enough fuel to feed his nightmares for the next year. Battle he could handle… spiders just gave him the creeps.

The relief of being out of that stinking place was short-lived when he caught sight of the giant, furry mound dozing in a patch of light that trickled in from gaps in the cavern roof. He moved closer, squinting, and crouched behind a cart full of empty wine bottles that he supposed once belonged to a bandit or someone else mad or desperate enough to use this place as shelter.

Leto was oblivious to his companion’s actions. He had spotted another skeleton lying next to a brazier. Next to it was a potion. His knowledge that he and Ralof might need the potentially life-saving draught warred with his desire to not go anywhere near another set of remains if he didn’t have to. He huffed out a breath and told himself to stop being such a milk-drinker. It wasn’t as though this was the first body he’d encountered today. If he had managed to hold down his bile and loot the still-warm corpses of men he had killed with his own – well, borrowed – sword, then he could pick up a potion from beside a pile of bones that didn’t even have a single scrap of flesh on them anymore. He snatched the potion and briefly examined it before realising he didn’t have a clue what it was, then threw it into his knapsack with the rest. It was then he realised Ralof wasn’t beside him and panic hit.

He jogged toward him, much calmer, when he saw him crouched behind a cart. “What’s the ma–?”

Before he could finish whispering his question, the Stormcloak’s hand reached out and grabbed the hem of his armour to jerk him down behind the cart. “Hold up. There’s a bear just ahead!” he hissed. “See her?”

Leto glanced at where he was pointing and gulped. Oh, he saw her alright. All more-pounds-than-he-knew-how-to-count of her.

“I’d rather not tangle with her right now,” Ralof whispered. “Let’s try to sneak by. Just take it nice and slow, and watch where you step. Or if you’re feeling lucky, you can take this bow.” He reached up and slid something off his back. Leto took it and wondered just where in Oblivion he’d picked up another bow from. Likely the dead Imperials, but he didn’t remember seeing him grab it. “Might take her by surprise.”

Leto glanced between the sleeping bear and the new weapon as he shouldered the quiver Ralof gave him. Stealth had never been his strong suit. He was about a sneaky as a frost troll in a rage, and he knew it. There was a good clear space between the slumbering mound and a tunnel lit with daylight… but all it would take was one misstep, one object accidentally kicked, and that bear would know they were there. Even the loud sound of the rushing rivulet wouldn’t mask the echoes of a kicked rock. With the exhaustion both Nords were feeling, they didn’t know if they’d be able to outrun it, and engaging in close-quarters battle with a creature that outweighed them both combined and was designed by nature to kill would likely end with them as its next meal.

“Go ahead. I’ll follow your lead and watch your back,” Ralof said reassuringly, sensing his companion’s thoughts through his facial expression.

Leto turned his head and fixed him with a glare. “This had better not be you using me as bait again, Ralof. You didn’t do so well in following me last time you sent me on ahead.”

The Stormcloak held his hands up in a placating gesture. “I told you, we couldn’t. And I’m not using you as bait, nor did I before. If you want to sneak past her, we do. If you think we can kill her, I’ll fight by your side.”

Leto held his gaze for a moment longer before deciding he believed him. After all, they had both saved each other’s lives that day, and it was plausible enough that the fire had swallowed the inn too fast for them to use it as an escape… it just didn’t make the young Nord feel good that he’d been left bound to run around the chaos alone. And he was growing more exhausted the longer they had to keep fighting and trying to escape. He didn’t know this man at all, but he was being forced to trust him.

With one final look at the bear and the tunnel that was lit with sunlight – not torchlight, actual _sunlight_ – Leto made his choice. He nocked an arrow and took a deep breath.

The bear rose to its feet with an angry roar as the arrow sunk into its rump. Leto gulped. He had been aiming for its head… but he’d never been much of an archer.

“Sneaking is overrated, eh?” Ralof didn’t bother whispering, a grin on his face as he drew his own bow.

Leto couldn’t help but grin as well, though it looked more like a grimace, as he fired another arrow. The bear rose to its hind legs, bellowing its anger and making the whole cavern almost vibrate as it echoed off the stone walls. Despite the painful noise and the way it made Leto gulp, it didn’t achieve anything more for the bear that to leave itself open for more arrows.

But it didn’t stop the huge creature. It had spotted them and was barrelling toward them on all fours. Cursing and backing up, the two kept firing arrows as fast as their aching arms would let them.

The angry bear finally came to a crashing stop, slamming into the ground in a spray of wet dirt and skidding a few feet before stilling. Both Leto and Ralof kept an arrow ready as they moved toward it.

“It’s dead,” Leto sighed in relief, more to himself than his companion.

He kept the bow out as they kept moving. The next cavern was almost painfully bright to their weary and darkness-adjusted eyes… and the air was almost sweet. It smelled mostly of ferns and moist ground, not completely of the death and rot they had been breathing for what felt like a lifetime.

But none of that mattered. They could see daylight up ahead reflecting off clean snow. Instead of the oppressive damp chill that had hung around them during their escape through the dank and stale tunnels, they could feel the icy bite of Skyrim’s wind.

“That looks like the way out!” Ralof clapped Leto solidly on the back, and the younger Nord didn’t even care that it hurt like a kick from a horse. They were free! “I knew we’d make it!”

The stagnant stench of damp earth and rotten vegetation was lifting with every step. A gust outside sent a thin spray of snow toward them. The two stowed their bows and ran like madmen toward the light, even though it blinded them and had them tripping and stumbling on the jagged and slippery rocks. They didn’t care.

They had escaped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the lame title. I couldn't think of anything better... but it summed up the chapter at least :)
> 
> Thank you for reading :)


	5. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It isn't until things calm down that the truth of chaos really sets in.

Leto breathed in the crisp, fresh air deeply, tilting his head back to bask in the sunlight. He couldn’t smell or see the plumes of smoke from the burning town they’d left behind. The breeze must be carrying it in another direction. He couldn’t hear the screams of terror and pain. No more dank cells or torture rooms. There were no more skeletons of people who had either been using those gods-forsaken tunnels as a hideout or else prisoners who had died trying to escape. No more bones for his borrowed boots to crunch through.

When a gust of wind flared up fresh snow and he felt the cold mist brushing his skin, melting into his various wounds and stinging them, he felt laughter bubbling in his chest. He couldn’t keep it in as it spilled from his mouth in a flood. He started to stagger off, intending on finding the biggest pile of clean snow he could and dropping into it like a giddy child.

“Wait!”

He didn’t even hear Ralof’s alarmed shout. He was too busy drinking in his freedom and laughing. When he was dragged down behind a boulder by the Stormcloak, a strong hand clamped over his mouth, he snapped out of his elation. A dark shadow passed over them, followed by a ground-shaking roar and both Nords looked up.

The dragon that had both rescued them and destroyed Helgen was soaring overhead, apparently bored of its rampage.

The beast had long since disappeared from view before Ralof took his hand away from Leto’s mouth, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “There he goes. Looks like he’s gone for good this time.”

The two Nords dragged themselves to their feet.

“Do you think anyone else…?” Leto didn’t want to finish that question, but Ralof knew what he meant all the same: were there any other survivors?

“No way to know… some might have been able to escape before us, others might have found another way…” He shook his head to chase away his worry. There was nothing that could be done now. They were either in Sovngarde or they were safe. “But this place is going to be swarming with Imperials soon enough. We’d better clear out of here.”

Leto’s eyes widened as the thought of being recaptured – and wearing Stormcloak armour no less – flashed across his mind. He gave an emphatic nod and the two started running again.

Their breath was coming in ragged gasps, but they didn’t stop. They’d just escaped death in more than one form and they had no intention of being caught again.

“My sister Gerdur,” Ralof panted, “runs the mill in Riverwood, just up the road. I’m sure she’d help you out.”

Leto just nodded, too busy trying not to collapse or vomit – or both – to speak. After they reached the paved road and were just past a signed junction, they felt safe enough to stop, resting their hands on their knees to catch their breath.

“I wouldn’t have made it without your help today,” Ralof said solemnly once he could speak.

“Likewise,” Leto replied. He didn’t want to admit that he’d been scared out of his mind – even though he suspected the Stormcloak already knew. “I’d have died still kneeling next to the chopping block if you hadn’t called out to me.”

“You didn’t deserve to be in that cart. You weren’t with us and you’d done nothing wrong. I couldn’t just leave you there to die.”

Leto gave him a tired smile. “Thank you. I… I know I wasn’t much help but…”

Ralof chuckled. “You have the heart of a warrior, kinsman. Don’t sell yourself short. Alright, we should be safe to walk now. I don’t think I could keep running anyway…”

“I know how you feel,” the younger Nord replied, though he barely had the breath for it.

They half-staggered on aching legs, the adrenalin rush from their freedom fading quickly to leave weariness from battle and terror in its wake. As they were coming up on a bend, there was a break in the tree-line, giving a clear view of the landscape

Ralof pointed up to a series of stone arches that were perched on the mountainside across the river like the ribs of some kind of massive, long dead creature. “See that ruin up there? Bleak Falls Barrow. I never understood how my sister could stand living in the shadow of that place.” He gave a shudder and shook his head. “I guess you get used to it.”

They started trudging down the cobblestone road again and Leto found himself glancing back up at the ruin. “There’s one up the mountain from my village too. Thank Ysmir the forest was too dense so we couldn’t see it. That Barrow up there looks like it fits all the draugr stories I heard as a boy.”

He saw Ralof shudder. “Draugr. I’ve heard my share of stories about them too. That’s why I can’t understand how Gerdur lives beneath that place, seeing it every day.”

They walked in silence for a moment longer before something caught Leto’s eye. It was a trio of carved stones on a low plinth. It almost looked like some form of shrine. He wandered toward them, trying to figure out what they were but he came up blank. He’d never seen anything like it. Which wasn’t surprising since he’d never been further from his village than a few miles into the woods… until now.

Ralof saw him looking at the stones with interest. “These are the Guardian Stones, three of the thirteen ancient standing stones that dot Skyrim’s landscape. Go ahead, see for yourself.”

Leto did, stepping onto the stone dais to study the carvings on their front. They seemed to be depictions of star constellations backed by a sketch of what they represented; a mage, a thief and a warrior. Now that he had a name for them, he remembered another of his mother’s stories. It was said that if you placed your hands on ‘star-marked pillars’, the gods would bless you with those stars. He couldn’t remember much more than that, aside from most were hidden away in the wilds of Skyrim.

He could still feel Ralof’s eyes on him, watching in curiosity to see what he’d do. Leto found himself standing before the Warrior Stone, chewing his lip thoughtfully. The standing stones were probably little more than decorative sculptures from ancient times with no real power. The Nords of old probably used them for some kind of rituals. The young Nord couldn’t picture himself choosing the Mage Stone, and to take the blessings of the Thief was beyond laughable to him, so that left only one option. He certainly wasn’t the type to jokingly select one of the stones even if he didn’t believe they’d give him anything more than damp hands from the mist that had settled on them; his mother being a priestess had instilled a respect in things that could be religiously important. If he ever so much as _hinted_ at making a joke about a shrine or other item she’d tan his hide as a boy.

Leto took a deep breath, realising he was still standing and staring at the Warrior Stone. He rose a hand and pressed it to the cool, damp stone. He honestly didn’t expect anything to happen, but if there was even the smallest chance that receiving the blessing of the Warrior stars could give him strength and bravery, he’d take it. After all, dragons weren’t supposed to exist, but he’d seen one up close today – way too close – so why couldn’t an ancient stone have some magic too? He had no idea what he was supposed to do after he and Ralof made it to Riverwood. His home was gone, everything he’d ever known along with it. He’d nearly died multiple times in this day alone, having to kill to escape. He’d never killed a man before the bandits had turned up.

Yes, a warrior’s courage was what he needed. Strength, bravery… and being better with a sword couldn’t hurt either.

The second his palm touched the carvings, he tore his hand back with a startled yelp. Blue veins of magic rippled across the carvings, racing toward the circular hollow at the top of the stone. Leto briefly saw that same magic glittering against his palm that tingled slightly, but as the power pooled inside the hollow, then shot skyward in a blinding pillar, the feeling faded.

Leto looked toward Ralof, hoping for some kind of explanation. Instead he saw the Stormcloak grinning. “Warrior, good! Those stars will guide you to honour and glory.”

The young Nord lowered his hand and glanced briefly back at the stone before smiling himself. Obviously what had happened was nothing dangerous as his companion didn’t seem the least bit shocked by the bright magic his touch had caused. He didn’t feel any different, though he hardly expected to. But maybe the blessing of this Standing Stone was real and would grant him the benefits of a warrior… keep him strong against whatever he faced next.

“You ready to move on? Riverwood isn’t much further,” Ralof said.

“Aye. Thank you for showing me these.”

Ralof clapped him on the back and they started moving again. Their pace was slowing as exhaustion kept weighing them down.

“Remember, this isn’t Stormcloak territory,” Ralof said, possibly just needing to speak to keep himself alert. “If we’re ahead of the news from Helgen we should be fine as long as we don’t do anything stupid.”

Leto snorted. “I don’t know about you, but I’m too exhausted to do _anything_. Stupid or otherwise.”

Ralof chuckled. “If we run into any Imperials, just let me do the talking, all right?”

That woke his companion up a little. “Do you think we will?”

“I doubt it… but one of the soldiers, the one who read the list for our cart, he’s from Riverwood too. If he escaped –” Leto couldn’t help but notice a glimmer of hope in his voice. Had they been friends before the war? “– he’ll surely have tried to call in more Legionnaires. But I don’t think enough time has passed. Though, who knows how many troops the Legion had in the area.”

Leto found himself looking around in paranoia. Somehow he doubted that even if he let his companion do the talking they wouldn’t avoid capture. The fact they were both in Stormcloak armour would mean their fates were sealed. If they were recaptured it wouldn’t matter how much Leto denied being a rebel, they would just see blue armour and sentence him and they’d both be sent to the nearest chopping block to do the job the Empire had attempted properly... if they didn’t just do it on the spot. Every single movement of the trees made him think they were about to be peppered with arrows. His paranoia turned out to be justified, though not because of an Imperial ambush; a trio of wolves charged down the hill toward them.

“Ralof, look out!”

The Stormcloak drew his axe and swung around to face the beasts as they closed in, snarling. The two Nords stood back-to-back as the hungry wolves started circling, lunging forward to snap their frothing jaws before leaping back out of the way of their weapons.

Finally Ralof got a lucky hit in, driving his axe into the shoulder of one wolf that had intended on sinking its teeth into his shoulder. The beast yelped before falling to the ground, dead. The other two went into a wild frenzy at seeing their pack-mate fall. Leto felt a strong set of jaws clamp around his forearm and gave a holler of pain. It was fortunate that it had been his free arm that the beast was now hanging from, he supposed. He could still drive his sword down into the wolf’s gut. It took three stabs before it gave one last gurgling whimper and its grip on the young Nord’s arm went slack. Leto kicked the now lifeless body away and spun just in time to see Ralof tugging his axe from the final wolf’s spine, grunting in effort. He had a new wound that was spreading a dark patch of blood down his leg.

“You alright?” Leto asked breathlessly.

“Aye,” the Stormcloak replied, equally exhausted.

Thankful that their wounds weren’t serious, they downed what turned out to be the last two healing potions.

“I’m glad you decided to come with me,” Ralof said as they started moving again. “We’re almost to Riverwood.”

With every step, their limbs grew heavier. The slightest change in the road’s surface, the tiniest pebble, had them almost tripping over. With every blink their eyes protested at having to open again. Leto was more than tempted to just stagger over to the shoulder of the road and fall asleep in the long grass. It was looking more and more inviting as they shambled on and it wasn’t covered in snow like it had been closer to Helgen.

Some small spark of energy returned when they saw the wide, stone archway over the road. Through vision beginning to warp with exhaustion, they could see people moving about their lives, seemingly oblivious to the destruction that had occurred just up the road from their peaceful settlement.

Ralof picked up his pace, his face relaxing a little at seeing familiarity. “Looks like nobody knows what’s happened yet. Come on. Gerdur’s probably working in her lumber mill.”

As they passed beneath the arch and turned left toward the gently spinning waterwheel that powered the sawmill, an old woman stared at them, eyes wide. Her wrinkled and frail hands were gripping the railing of the porch outside what seemed to be her house.

“A dragon! I saw a dragon!”

A young man who had been walking up the road turned. He gave a long suffering sigh and approached the woman. “What is it now, mother?”

Her head snapped to him. “It was big as the mountain, and black as night. It flew right over the barrow.”

The young man pinched the bridge of his nose as she gestured wildly into the distance. “Dragons, now, is it? Please, mother. If you keep on like this everyone in town will think you’re crazy. And I’ve got better things to do than listen to more of your fantasies.”

Ralof and Leto traded a glance and kept moving toward the mill as quickly as they could. It would just figure that it was an old woman that it seemed no one was likely to believe that actually knew the truth.

They rounded the side of the mill structure and saw a woman leaning an axe up against the woven barrier between village and river. She stretched her back with a contented sigh, the pile of firewood beside her suggesting she’d been working for a good few hours.

“Gerdur!” Ralof’s face split into a grin and his leaden legs seemed to grow a little lighter.

The blonde woman started and whipped around to face the exhausted and bloodied pair moving toward her. Her face brightened with a relieved smile, as though she had almost expected to never see the Stormcloak again.

“Brother! Mara’s mercy, it’s good to see you!” She paused and glanced around, worry furrowing her brow to somewhat replace the joy. “But is it safe for you to be here? We heard that Ulfric had been captured…”

“Gerdur,” Ralof reached for her and gripped her upper arms reassuringly, “I’m fine. At least now I am.”

The woman cupped her brother’s face as though she could hardly believe he was standing in front of her. Her eyes widened when she finally noticed the blood that was staining his blue armour a dark, dirty colour. “Are you hurt? What happened?” Her eyes landed on Leto and she gave him a once over. “And who is this? One of your comrades?”

Ralof glanced back, but didn’t pull away from his sister’s touch. “Not a comrade yet, but a friend. I owe him my life, in fact.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” Leto murmured, feeling his face heat up.

He didn’t know if what he had said was even intelligible, but either way both Gerdur and Ralof ignored his attempt at coherent speech. Now that he knew they were safe, his energy was fading rapidly again. He was wavering on his feet and wondered if it would be terribly rude to simply fall asleep where he was standing. And seeing brother and sister embracing each other, his heart was beginning to ache with the rapidly setting-in knowledge that he’d never again be able to hold his own family.

As though he could read his exhausted companion’s expression, Ralof stepped away from his sister with one last brush of her arm. “Is there somewhere we can talk? There’s no telling when the news from Helgen will reach the Imperials…”

“Helgen?” Gerdur’s eyes widened. “Has something happened…?” Helgen was so close to Riverwood, merely a few hours walk by road but much closer as a hawk flies. She pulled herself together and glanced between her brother and his friend. “You’re right. Follow me.”

She gestured for them both to follow and started moving off into a clearing away from the sawmill and prying ears. As they passed out of the shadow of the structure, she glanced up toward a stocky Nord tending to the saw blade.

“Hod! Come here a minute. I need your help with something.”

“What is it, woman?” He didn’t even glance to her. “Sven drunk on the job again?”

“Hod. Just come here.”

He looked away from his work, scowling, until his eyes landed on the pair in Stormcloak armour following his wife. “Ralof! What are you doing here? Ah…” He decided to ignore his work and brushed sawdust off his hands onto his trousers. “I’ll be right down.”

The trio finally made it to the clearing, and Leto felt as though it had been the longest walk of his life. From the corner of his rapidly darkening vision, he saw a young boy racing up, hound almost as big as him in tow. He’d barely skidded to halt when he started tugging on the Stormcloak’s sleeve.

“Uncle Ralof! Can I see your axe? How many Imperials have you killed? Do you really know Ulfric Stormcloak?”

Seeing the exhausted smile that her brother was forcing onto his face for the benefit of his nephew, Gerdur pried the boy’s fingers away. “Hush, Frodnar. This is no time for your games. Go and watch the south road. Come find us if you see any Imperial soldiers coming.”

“Aw, mama, I want to stay and talk with Uncle Ralof!” If Leto had had any energy to do so, he would have chuckled at the pleading tone and eyes he was giving his mother.

Ralof gave his sister a look that said it was fine, that he honestly didn’t mind being bombarded with questions by his nephew despite being ready to fall down. Gerdur rolled her eyes and let go of her son’s wrist.

The Stormcloak brushed his hand over his nephew’s head, smiling. “Look at you, almost a grown man! Won’t be long before you’ll be joining the fight yourself.”

Those words penetrated Leto’s tired mind. Gods, he hoped that the war wasn’t going to last long enough for this child to come of age and join. He was pretty sure that everyone wanted the war to be over quickly. But he soon realised the true meaning behind Ralof’s words.

The boy’s back straightened with pride and he slammed a curled fist against his own chest. “That’s right! Don’t worry, Uncle Ralof, I won’t let those soldiers sneak up on you.”

The boy disappeared with the same sprint he had arrived with, calling the dog to follow. The second the boy was out of sight, Ralof slumped down onto a tree stump with something between a grunt and a groan. Leto considered joining him, but knew that if he allowed himself to sit down he’d likely never get back up… and he’d definitely pass out. Gerdur was shaking her head in amusement at her brother and how he’d handled her son. Ralof could only manage a weary smile in return.

Leto didn’t even notice when Gerdur’s husband came up beside them, and if the start the young Stormcloak gave was any indication, he hadn’t either.

“Now, Ralof, what’s going on?” He rested a meaty hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder and glanced between him and his barely awake companion, worry creasing his brow. “You two look pretty well done in.”

The young Stormcloak sighed and leaned in a little at the gentle squeezing of his shoulder. “I can’t remember when I last slept… Where to start? Well, the news you heard about Ulfric was true. The Imperials ambushed us the night before we were going to move to Darkwater Crossing. Like they knew exactly where we’d be. That was… almost two days ago now.”

Leto was suddenly wide awake, eyes snapping open. Wait, what?! Two days? How long had he been unconscious in the back of the cart?! He had been caught up in that same ambush and from what he’d been able to gather in his brief conversation on the way to Helgen and from the Imperial soldier who had been reading the death list at the foot of their cart, he’d assumed they hadn’t been far past Skyrim’s border. Near enough to Cyrodiil that the soldier – Hadvar, wasn’t it? – had assumed he’d crossed over the province line and tried to sneak into the snowy land. It had been some time in the dead of night when Leto had stumbled into the Stormcloak camp, and even taking into account that the prison carts had arrived at Helgen mid-morning and he and Ralof had spent most of the day fighting to escape, that still must have been one solid crack to the head he took. And how far had he run from his home village before he’d met the rebel camp to have been carted that far to his execution?

Gerdur’s snarl broke him out of his confusion. “The cowards!”

Ralof nodded in agreement and spat on the ground. “They wouldn’t dare give Ulfric a fair trial. Treason, for fighting for your own people! All of Skyrim would have seen the truth then. But then…” he hesitated, glancing around in paranoia, “out of nowhere… a dragon attacked…”

“You don’t mean, a real, live…” Gerdur seemed torn between amazement and disbelief.

“I can hardly believe it myself, and I was there. As strange as it sounds, we’d be dead if not for that dragon. In the confusion, we managed to slip away.” He ran a hand through his tangled and filthy hair. “Are we really the first to make it to Riverwood?”

“Nobody else has come up the south road today, as far as I know.”

Ralof sighed, though Leto wasn’t sure it was entirely in relief. “Good. Maybe we can lay up for a while. I hate to put your family in danger, Gerdur, but…”

She waved his concern away. “Nonsense. You and your friend are welcome to stay here as long as you need to. Let me worry about the Imperials.” She turned to Leto then and gave him a kind smile. “Any friend of Ralof’s is a friend of mine.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. If there’s anything I can do for you,” he managed to slur.

She dug something out of her pocket and held it out to him. When Leto’s only reaction was to stare thickly at her, she reached out and slid it into his hand. “Here’s a key to the house. Stay as long as you like. If there’s anything else you need, just let me know.” She eyed him with deep concern, looking over his wounds and the dark circles around his eyes. “Look, there is something you could do for me. For all of us here. But I think that can wait until you have had some rest.”

“Thanks, sister,” Ralof said as he started hauling himself to his feet. “I knew we could count on you.”

Gerdur rubbed his upper arm affectionately and smiled. “Nonsense, you know you are always welcome here, no matter the circumstances. Now you and your friend go home and rest. I ought to get back to work before I’m missed, but… did anyone else escape? Did Ulfric…”

“Don’t worry,” Ralof assured her before she’d even finished her question. “I’m sure he made it out. It’ll take more than a dragon to stop Ulfric Stormcloak.”

Gerdur nodded and started to head off. She glanced back when she realised that her husband wasn’t following and raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll let them into the house and,” the stocky man stammered, “you know, show them where everything is…”

Gerdur rolled her eyes. “Hmph. Help them drink up our mead, you mean. Good luck, brother. I’ll see you later.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Ralof smiled, “I know how to lay low.”

The two young Nords in bloody Stormcloak armour started following Hod. In Leto’s fatigue he couldn’t make out much of what the man was saying, or what Ralof was responding with. He seemed to be pointing out what each of the buildings were they were passing. But Leto was too lost in what his addled mind decided to notice; that he was below average height for a Nord, while his shoulders were just as wide as Leto’s own. It made him look remarkably like a mead barrel with short, thick arms and legs. It was a completely bizarre thing to notice, he knew, but he couldn’t help but observe it.

He swore he had fallen asleep on his feet and kept walking until he heard Hod speaking as he unlocked the door to a stone cottage. “I know you two are dead on your feet, so I’ll try not to ask too many questions. There’s some stew that’s been going over the fire all day. Help yourselves… you look like you both need a good meal. I’ll get some water for you to clean up in.” He opened the door and ushered them inside. “Mead’s over on the bar. You both look like you do with that as much as good feed.”

Hod then grabbed a pair of buckets and went back outside. Leto barely noticed. The smell of stew hit him and that was all that existed in his world now. Like a shambling draugr from the stories of his childhood, he made his way over to the simmering pot. He wasn’t sure his stomach could handle food, but damn if he wasn’t going to give it a shot. The last time he’d eaten anything substantial was dinner with his family… and that was more than two days ago apparently.

He and Ralof helped themselves to a bowl of steaming stew each and slumped down at the table heavily. They ate in silence, too exhausted and famished to even attempt politeness or conversation; they were both slurping straight from their wooden bowls.

They were starting on a second helping when Hod returned with his buckets full of water from the river. He sat them down near the fire and went to the other side of the house to pick up an armload of mead, seeing that neither of his guests had gotten further than the stew pot. Both Leto and Ralof barely thanked him before tearing the corks out and downing half of their bottle before having to stop and breathe. Then they went back to the stew.

Hod and Ralof were talking, but Leto couldn’t focus on what they were saying. He was swaying in his seat, focusing every ounce of concentration he had left on staying conscious. No matter how tired he was and how content he was feeling with a belly full of wonderful food, given so graciously by his companion’s family, it would be incredibly rude to pass out at their dinner table. Even if he had just survived Oblivion. And he was certain that once he was out nothing short of magical intervention would rouse him.

“So you really saw a dragon, did you?” Leto managed to pry his heavy eyelids apart and focus just well enough to see that the stocky Nord was looking between he and Ralof with a strange mix of deep concern and wide-eyed excitement. “Tell me, what was it like? As big as a house?”

Leto wasn’t sure he really wanted to talk about it, but the man’s childish curiosity had him smiling in spite of himself. He knew he’d be just as curious if he had been in Hod’s shoes, having two people turn up and talk of seeing a creature that was nothing more than legend.

“Much bigger than that,” he slurred, his tongue feeling like lead. “As big as the inn.”

“Well I’ll be! That’d be a sight to see.”

The two young Nords exchanged a glance. It had definitely been a sight to see, but it had been a terrifying one rather than wondrous or exciting like Hod’s tone suggested.

The older man seemed to notice their expressions and gulped down a mouthful of mead nervously. “Not that I actually want to see one, understand. I hope that dragon stays far away from here.”

“I hope so too,” Leto agreed. “But after Ralof and I escaped it looked like it flew well away. Riverwood should be safe from it.”

Ralof nodded. “Aye, it didn’t look like he was planning on coming back.”

Hod just nodded and decided to change the subject. He may be dying to know what had happened but the two lads needed rest. And before they could do that, they needed to clean up and tend their injuries.

“Sorry we don’t have a proper bath, but those buckets are clean and the water’s fresh. And it’s better than jumping straight into the river, eh? We’ve got a few bandages I’ll get out while you clean up… I’m afraid we’ve got no potions or anything that’ll help.”

Ralof assured him it was no problem and all three rose from the table. While Hod searched around the small but cosy house, the younger two started washing the filth and blood from their skin, hissing with every touch of a fresh wound.

By the time they were done, they were far from clean, but they were still much better off than when they’d started and at least their wounds wouldn’t get infected. Hod helped them bandage the worst of their injuries when he realised that both were to the point of exhaustion that they barely had the energy to lift the wash cloth to clean themselves. The older Nord’s hands were rough with labour but he tried his hardest to be gentle. He fussed over both of the young men, especially once he saw the head wounds on Leto.

Finally he was satisfied that they would both live and ordered them to bed. Ralof was having trouble opening his eyes again after every blink, but tried to protest. He was worried about the Imperials turning up. He didn’t want anything to happen to his sister’s family. Hod hushed him, telling him to leave the Imperials to everyone else, and shoved him toward a double bed, clearly the one he shared with Gerdur.

The Stormcloak offered no more resistance as he kicked off his boots, tossed his armour aside and crawled onto the fur-covered mattress. He was asleep within seconds and Hod turned to see what his other guest was doing. Leto was shambling toward the only other bed in the house, too exhausted to even worry that they were stealing the beds of their hosts.

Hod was about to prompt him, but instead he chuckled when he realised he had no need to. Leto crumpled face down onto the bed, not even bothering to get under the blankets or even remove the sword from his belt. He was lying diagonally with his still-boot-clad feet dangling off the edge. With a belly full of food and mead, relatively clean and wounds tended, the only thing his mind could focus on was Hod’s recommendation of sleep. Darkness was eating away at the corners of his vision and he let his heavy eyelids finally fall shut and stay that way.

But despite the bone-deep weariness, he realised he couldn’t sleep. He was finally in a bed, finally in a place where he was _allowed_ and able to sleep, after however long of almost passing out on his feet, and now he simply couldn’t fall unconscious. What if the Imperials turned up? He and Ralof were destined for the block, and he knew that after what had happened, the soldiers wouldn’t hesitate to simply drag them from their beds and execute them right in the house, especially wearing Stormcloak blues. And what about Gerdur and Hod? They were harbouring fugitives. Surely they wouldn’t escape the Imperial’s wrath. He could just imagine the screams of their son as he watched them all be put to the sword.

And what of the dragon? Riverwood was only a few hours away from Helgen on foot, but for that giant black bastard, it was probably only a few minutes flight. His mind conjured up images of the village on fire, the charred bodies of its people laying out in the street or half buried under rubble, skin crackling and flesh cooking like a leg of goat. Others were burning while still alive, their limbs flailing as they ran madly in agony, trying to find the river to dive into and put themselves out, but falling dead before they got there.

He tried to force the images from his mind, but they were only replaced by the faces of the Imperials he had slain in order to escape Helgan. The smell of blood and smoke and bile was still in his nose, on his skin, and he swore he’d never be able to get rid of it, no matter how hard he scrubbed.

He lurched from the bed and grabbed the bucket that had luckily been sitting next to it, retching violently. His whole body trembled between the spasms of vomiting.

Hod was at his side in seconds, joined by a suddenly wide-awake Ralof. He was barely aware of the young Stormcloak gently shooing his brother-in-law away, murmuring he’d take care of it, as everything he’d just consumed forced itself out of his body.

When a hand landed on his shoulder, Leto turned his eyes upward, still not game enough to lift his face too far from the bucket.

Ralof gave him an empathetic smile. “The first battle is always the hardest.”

Leto had no response so he simply stared at him, trembling and clutching the bucket to him as though it were the only thing between him and Oblivion. If only Ralof could see what was playing through his mind, how what he was seeing was so similar to what he had fled from at his own village to seek help. Or maybe the young Stormcloak did understand. While he had maintained his composure at Helgan, he had stumbled past the same broken and burning bodies as Leto. Smelled the same scent of cooking flesh and melted steel, combined with the thick, sickening scent of burnt leather and timber.

And as a soldier fighting in the civil war, he’d likely seen many battlefields littered with the dead and dying, some of whom he would have called brother and friend. His mind would be just as haunted, but he’d obviously learned how to keep the terrors and pain at bay to rest.

“I can still see it, smell it,” Leto rasped. “All the fire, all the bodies. I can still feel my sword slicing into them.”

The hand on his shoulder gave a comforting squeeze. “Aye, so can I. Only an animal kills without feeling. But you need to remember that it was us or them. We were left with no choice. And that dragon… that was no one’s fault.”

Leto just nodded, wanting so badly to believe his new friend. But words weren’t going to remove the images from his mind. And he hadn’t been talking exclusively about Helgen.

He saw Hod reappear and pass a pair of bottles to Ralof who smiled in thanks as he pulled the corks out. He helped Leto to sit up after the younger Nord had wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He sat down next to him on the bed and offered one of the bottles.

“I don’t think I can keep it down,” Leto murmured. He felt awful that he’d managed to wake Ralof up from what had to have been a dead sleep… and even worse that Hod was now removing the filled bucket to dump outside.

Ralof shrugged and pressed it into his hand anyway. “There’s plenty more. And it might help you sleep.”

They were silent for a moment as they both took slow sips of mead. Leto was aware that Hod still hadn’t returned and was fairly certain he was giving the pair some privacy.

Finally the Stormcloak gave Leto a gentle nudge with his elbow. “You want to talk about it? It helps.”

Leto took another mouthful of mead to give himself time to think. “I just… it was too much. I’ve never had to kill a man before. I know that we had no choice but…” He shook his head and took a deep breath. “The first man was one of the bandits that attacked my village. And after what happened there… everything was on fire, all I could smell was smoke and burning bodies and then it happened again, and then I had to kill again.”

Ralof nodded empathetically. “I know this is probably a stupid thing to say, but it gets easier. And you can’t feel guilty for doing what had to be done. Not when the enemy wouldn’t have hesitated to do it to you. You tried to talk to that captain, Leto, but you can’t help that she didn’t listen. And as for you home, you tried to defend it. Your family are resting in Sovngarde, smiling down on you and glad you are alive.”

They fell into silence again and kept drinking. Ralof was watching his new friend out of the corner of his eye, seeing that he was again succumbing to his exhaustion.

He rested a hand on the younger man’s shoulder again. “Get some sleep, friend. You’ll feel better in the morning. A new sunrise always eases the pain.”

Leto nodded and started to lay down. When Ralof’s hand gripping the sleeve of his armour stopped him, he glanced up in confusion.

“Maybe take your sword and boots off first, eh?”

The small quirk of the Stormcloak’s lip had Leto glancing down at himself and chuckling. “Aye, probably a good idea. Was wondering what was digging into my leg.”

He dragged himself to his feet and fumbled with his weapon’s belt. It finally fell off his hips to land on the floor with a loud thud. Leto couldn’t help but jump at the sound, then pressed a hand to his head. He’d forgotten in the chaos that had become his life that he had had a heavy night drinking before it all.

“You alright?” Ralof asked worried that the wounds to his head were more serious than he’d thought.

Leto gave a small chuckle. He forced himself to ignore how ridiculous the question was, given what they had both just been through. He knew what Ralof had meant, and he didn’t want to think about it anymore. Instead, he decided to focus on a different aspect; Ralof had been kind, trying to ease his troubled mind and Leto felt bad for waking him up with his violent vomiting, the least he could do was be strong and remember something from before the chaos.

“Before all of this started,” he smiled as he plonked back down on the bed to unlace his boots, “I’d had a skinful. My pa and I spend the night down at the tavern with the miller and a few others, drinking the old innkeeper out of his mead supplies. I barely even remember staggering home, but my pa had to help me. Gods, ma nearly skinned us both when we came through the door. We made such a racket, knocked over a table and all.”

Ralof laughed, glad that Leto was remembering something happier and was trusting him enough to share it. “What happened then?”

“She sent us to bed… threatening us the whole time with a damned ladle.” Leto’s smile faltered. “When I woke up… a bandit had thrown a lit torch onto my bed. And it was all downhill from there.”

Ralof was silent for moment, searching for something to say to get his friend thinking back on better times to fall asleep. Finally he nudged the young man again and grinned.

“So what you’re saying is that this whole time, you’ve been running around drunk or hung-over?” Leto burst out laughing, clutching his head and stomach as they protested vehemently against the action. “Well, guess that explains why you’re so lousy with a blade.”

The younger man’s jaw dropped and he swatted at Ralof’s arm. “Hey! I seem to remember saving your arse a few times there, soldier.”

The Stormcloak dodged the blow easily, grinning. “Aye, you did my friend. And that’s what you need to focus on. The good that’s come of it and the happy memories. Let those be what follows you into sleep.”

Leto nodded at the sudden turn back to serious. He and Ralof finished their drinks in silence, but it was comfortable. There were so many things that Leto wanted to ask his new friend, about why he’d joined the rebellion, his past. When he’d pointed out Bleak Falls Barrow as they approached Riverwood, it had sounded like he and Gerdur hadn’t grown up in the village, but that she had moved there and settled down. What had become of their parents? They were both young enough that they could still be alive. But all of those questions were fading as quickly as they appeared. His mind was finally shutting down and sleep was claiming him.

The last thing he knew was the empty bottle being gently taken from his limp hand and a blanket being laid over him.


	6. Recuperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nords are hardy people. The very land they call home tries to kill them, and that's not even mentioning the creatures that share it with them. But sometimes even the strongest of folk reach a breaking point and need some time to be shattered before they can pull themselves together.

Stendarr, the Divine of mercy, must have taken pity on Leto because he slept so deeply he didn’t dream. At least not that he could remember when the darkness lifted and he found himself warm and cosy in bed, hushed conversation happening a little way away from him.

The comfort abruptly vanished when he went to curl deeper into the blankets. He felt like he’d been slammed into by a frost troll, or maybe a giant’s club. Serves him right for drinking so much, he chastised himself. How many times had he sworn to all the gods – old and new – that he wouldn’t do it again? Gods, Aniya was going to be insufferable today. He was just waiting for her to start banging a pot with a wooden ladle right beside his ear.

And then Leto was suddenly wide awake. No, his sister wouldn’t be tormenting him for being hung-over. His sister was dead. Everyone he’d ever known was dead. And in seeking help, he’d wound up almost losing his head with a group of rebels after being captured by Imperials.

He opened his eyes and glanced around. The quiet conversation ceased and the four people looked at him with sympathetic eyes. Leto took a moment to collect himself then sat up. He immediately regretted that decision. With a groan he clutched his head as it pounded so fiercely his vision shook. Ralof was at his side in an instant, concern etched deep into his brow.

“I’m okay,” Leto murmured. “I think the hangover just caught up with me.”

His response was laughter from the whole family, though still tinged with pity. During the night, after Gerdur had returned home from work and Ralof had woken up, they had shared a meal and spoken about her brother’s new friend. He had told them that Leto had lost his whole village to a vicious bandit attack, and while seeking help had wound up caught up in the Imperial raid of the Stormcloak camp.

They had all been relieved that he had slept deeply, only seeming to have nightmares once that were easily calmed. Ralof had also mentioned that the poor young Nord had been awoken from a drunken slumber by the bandit’s attack.

When they’d all risen in the morning to begin their day, they had let Leto sleep. For one they could tell he needed it, and for another they didn’t think they’d be able to wake him even if they tried.

Ralof had stayed behind to lay low in the house and rest up while his sister and brother-in-law had left for work. Frodnar had managed to convince his parents to let him stay at home and bombard his uncle with questions, before he eventually left to go and find his friend. He knew what he shouldn’t share with her, so didn’t need to be warned to keep quiet.

It was now afternoon, and Gerdur and Hod had decided to return home for lunch to keep their wounded guests company.

The smell of food awoke Leto’s stomach and it gave a growl that was somewhere between interested and unsure if it could keep down whatever he consumed. The scent of the stew was too much for the young Nord to resist and he decided to risk it. He staggered out of bed, the night’s rest only reminding him of how tired and exhausted he was and all he had gone through to get to the safety of the village. When he slumped down in the first free seat at the table, Gerdur and Hod slid him a bowl of the delicious smelling stew and a half-loaf of bread. He would have devoured it in seconds if Ralof hadn’t warned him to take his time, saying that it would likely come straight back up if he pushed his weakened stomach too hard.

With a look of misery, Leto accepted the advice and ate slowly. The pace was agonising as his gut made it clear that it cared nothing for feeling sick, it only wanted to be filled _now_. He was only halfway through the bowl when the first dangerous clenching of his stomach had him wrapping an arm around his middle and groaning. Hod straight away got to his feet and retrieved a bucket to sit down next to their guest, patting his shoulder sympathetically. Leto gave him a nod of thanks and sat with his head bowed, waiting for his body to either recover or reject the meal.

By the time the pain finally eased, he was soaked in a thin sheen of cold sweat. His stomach was still complaining that he was hungry so he forced himself to finish the meal so generously given to him by the family of his new friend. He offered to help clean up, but apparently that job would fall to their son, Frodnar since he had failed to turn up for lunch for the third day running.

Instead Gerdur suggested that the two young Nords should bathe. Leto took a whiff of his shoulder and instantly agreed with that sentiment. By the Divines he stank! Sweat, smoke and the gore of multiple enemies wafted off his borrowed armour and were almost strong enough to make his stomach turn again.

“There’s a spot near the bridge where we can have some privacy,” Ralof said as he and Leto rose to their feet. They were both stiff and sore, but the thought of being properly clean of the stench of Helgen was an opportunity they wouldn’t pass up.

Hod handed them both soap and a wash cloth. There was also a bundle of clothes that the stocky Nord assured would fit them. Leto looked a little doubtful, but didn’t argue. Even if the clothes didn’t fit, it would be a lot more pleasant than wearing a dead man’s tattered armour that was still stained with its old wearer’s blood.

“If you need us,” Gerdur said as they exited the cottage, “we’ll be at the mill. From what I’ve heard, the Legion has heard about Helgen. So be careful and stay out of sight. They’ll likely be sending troops through to investigate and the last thing I want is for them to spot you two.”

The very thought made Leto shudder. The two blue-clad Nords kept a paranoid eye out as Ralof led the way to the bridge just outside the village. True to his word the pair found privacy under the aged and weathered stones. Modesty was forgotten as they stripped off and dove straight into the frigid river. As far as Leto was concerned, this was the most luxurious feeling he’d ever experienced; the water was cleansing and fresh, washing away the grime of the previous days in its strong current. He ignored the stinging of his wounds and scrubbed himself raw, not satisfied until all he could smell on his skin was the faint lavender of the soap.

Once their bodies were clean, he and Ralof scrubbed at their armour. By the time the cakes of soap were little more than squishy slivers, the cloth sashes that covered the padding and mail were actually looking their former blue colour again.

When Leto was dry enough to dress in the simple miller’s clothes Hod had given him, he was surprised to find that they did indeed fit. The trousers were a little short, as were the sleeves of the shirt, but he could move properly and didn’t feel like he’d tried to stuff himself into a child’s clothes like he had with the armour. He gave a contended sigh and slumped down in a patch of sun beside the bridge next to Ralof, not even bothering to try and strain his brain for an answer as to where the clothes had come from.

“Is it over?” he asked the Stormcloak. “I mean, is it _really_ over? Did we make it?”

Ralof reached up and squeezed his new friend’s shoulder. “Aye, it’s over. We made it to Riverwood. We’re safe now.”

He could understand Leto’s concerns. When he’d first joined Ulfric’s cause and had his first ever battle under the true High King’s banner, he hadn’t fared much better than the young Nord. The faces of those he’d killed, the sounds of screaming and the scent of death and fear had haunted him. He hadn’t been able to sleep for a week, or keep any food down. But the advice he’d given Leto the previous night had been true; think on more positive memories, remember the good that comes out of battle. It had been words from his own unit commander and he would never forget them. They were all that had kept him sane and able after that first fight with the Imperials.

Leto just nodded and then tilted his head back to bask in the sunlight. It felt so good warming his face after so long of wondering if he’d ever experience it again. Cold water dripped from the tips of his wet, shoulder-length hair to soak into his shirt, but even that was something he found himself enjoying. He was clean and safe, at least for the time being, and he fully intended to grab a hold of that feeling with both hands.

“What will you do now?”

Ralof’s question broke the younger Nord from his reverie and he opened his eyes to glance at his new friend. That was the question, wasn’t it… he had no home anymore. Everyone and everything he had ever known was gone.

Leto let out a heavy sigh and glanced out over White River, seeing a school of fish swimming in dizzying circles as they sought out food. “I have no idea,” he finally admitted. “I think your sister said something about wanting me to do something for the village yesterday… but I’m a little hazy. Whatever she wants me to do though, I’ll do that. It’s the least I can do for the kindness you’ve all shown me.”

“You know, you should go to Windhelm and join the fight to free Skyrim. You’ve seen the true face of the Empire now, ready to chop your head off without any just cause.”

Leto snorted. “I’ve also seen the true face of a bloody big dragon. Doesn’t mean I want to go charging in to fight it.”

Ralof couldn’t help but laugh. He saw Leto scowling at him, indicating he hadn’t been making a joke and the Stormcloak tried to calm himself. “True, but if anyone will know what the coming of the dragons means, it’s Ulfric. It’s probably some kind of Imperial or Thalmor tactic to drive fear into our hearts and weaken us.”

Leto didn’t comment on that. He somehow doubted even the Thalmor had the kind of power it would take to command a creature that, up until yesterday, had been nothing but a legend. He had heard that the elves were powerful and were supposedly trying to create a new Empire in their own image, but surely not _that_ powerful. And for all he knew, that could just be some stupid rumour. And if the Thalmor were so powerful, why had they only _just_ won the Great War? Not to mention the dragon’s arrival had saved Ulfric’s life and stopped the Empire from ending the civil war by literally cutting the head off the snake. All in all, the Stormcloaks had been the only ones to benefit from that timely interruption.

“Look, no offence Ralof, but I’m not going to go to Windhelm.” He saw suspicion furrow the other man’s brow. “I’m not going to join the Imperials either. Definitely not after they tried to cut my head off illegally.”

Ralof relaxed a little and clapped the younger man’s shoulder. “I’m glad to hear that last part. The Imperials are nothing but puppets on the Thalmor’s strings. But I hope you reconsider joining us. We could use a good warrior like you, and you are a true son of Skyrim.”

Leto looked back out over the river, feeling awkward and sheepish. “My pa always taught me to stay out of things I don’t understand. Where my village was, we didn’t really see or hear much of the war. We were right on the border of Skyrim and Cyrodiil and each land thought we belonged to the other… until tax time.” He heard Ralof chuckle at that and he chanced a look back up to him. “And I’m not a soldier. Pretty sure you could tell that even if you do keep calling me a warrior. I’m a blacksmi… _was_ a blacksmith’s apprentice. And not even a very good one.”

The Stormcloak gave his shoulder a squeeze and shook it a little. “Don’t sell yourself short. You fought well against the Imperials. And as I recall, you took the Warrior Stone’s blessing.”

Leto kept to himself that he did it because he was hoping the Stone would give him some bravery. Not to mention his other choices were Thief or Mage, and the idea of him becoming either a pickpocket or a caster were not only laughable, but also made him a little nauseous. He may be one step shy of being a milk-drinker, but he was still a Nord.

“I really appreciate you saving me and everything your family’s done too. But I don’t want to join a war I know practically nothing about.”

There were so many things he wanted to say; how he hated that Talos had been banned, but that he thought that most of the Imperials were still trying to help Skyrim. How he couldn’t even begin to think about joining a war and spilling more innocent – because that’s what the soldiers were, they were only fighting for what they believed in too – blood when the smells of gore and fire-eaten flesh were still lingering in his nostrils. The only armour he possessed was a dead man’s, the fabric around the tear in the stomach still stained with his blood despite his furious scrubbing. And his mind was still trying to come to terms with the fact that he would never again see anyone he’d ever known… his parents… his sister… they were all nothing more than charred remains on the icy ground of what was once a peaceful little village, much like Riverwood.

Realising that he had been sitting silently, mouth opening and closing without anything more that stammered noises coming out, he cleared his throat and tried to straighten himself up.

“Thank you Ralof. I’d be dead if not for you. Whatever your sister needs me to do, I’ll do it, I promise. And… and if there’s anything you ever need, I’ll do what I can to help. But I won’t join a war. I just… I can’t.”

Ralof smiled and clapped him on the back once more. “I understand, my friend. We should get back inside before any patrols come through and spot our armour. We’ll find out what it is Gerdur wants you to do tonight.”

*

The final hours of daylight passed by without incident. Ralof and Leto hung their armour on a rack near the fire to dry and spent the afternoon talking. Gerdur and Hod finished their work earlier than normal and joined the pair in conversation over several bottles of mead. Leto’s stomach seemed to have recovered its fortitude and he had no trouble drinking the home-brew. He learned a lot about his new friend and his family, including that while Ralof and Gerdur were strong in their support of Ulfric Stormcloak, Hod seemed to be beastly careless. He cared about his brother-in-law, but that was it when it came to the rebellion.

But the longer the conversation went on, and the more the young Nord saw the family around him interact, the more his heart ached for a home he’d never see again. He knew it was likely the mead helping his emotional turmoil overcome him, but at the same time he knew it would be unmanly and quite rude to break down – again – in front of his hosts, especially since they had shown him so much generosity and kindness in letting him stay in their already rather crowded cottage.

For the most part they pretended their guest wasn’t barely clinging to whatever shreds of dignity and composure he had left at their table, scrubbing at his face to try and hide the tears or glancing away whenever some form of familial affection was shown. And to his credit he tried to keep up his end of the conversations, remembering Ralof’s advice of burying the pain and remembering only happier times. But the Stormcloak supporting family was cautious nonetheless when they asked questions of his past.

Frodnar eventually turned up for dinner and received a verbal tanning from his mother about missing lunch. The boy scowled when he learned that his punishment was to be stuck with cleaning the dishes but didn’t argue. It seemed everyone knew better than to argue with Gerdur. When no one was paying attention, Leto leaned in and caught the grumbling boy’s arm and promised to help him with the chore later. It was the least he could do after being shown such kindness. It seemed that in that moment, Leto made a new best friend.

While they shared a meal, Leto remembered that Gerdur had wanted to ask him to do something for her and decided that now was as good a time as any to ask. She nodded and told him that she needed for someone to deliver word of the dragon attack to the Jarl of Whiterun. Apparently Helgen, while only a few hours travel from the village, belonged to another Hold, but the village’s proximity to the now destroyed garrison town was enough to make her fearful for her people’s safety. She herself couldn’t go, and neither could any other in the village. With the seasons so close to changing, all hands would be needed to keep Riverwood afloat and as the most well-off family Gerdur and Hod were considered something like the village leaders. That meant that the responsibility of the settlement was theirs. And Ralof couldn’t deliver the message, being a Stormcloak.

Leto readily agreed to the task. It was the least he could do to try and repay the hospitality given to him. She was right that Riverwood would be defenceless against a dragon attack. The river village didn’t even have a wall or guards. Ralof was probably the best warrior there and he couldn’t take on that giant beast alone. An entire Imperial battalion had been decimated while fighting against it.

It was getting too late to leave, so Leto promised to head out to the Hold capital first thing in the morning, denying that Gerdur would be in his debt for the action, even though she insisted. After what her family had done for him, he didn’t think delivering a simple message could even come close to beginning to repay them. The miller just waved his comments away and chastised him for calling her ‘ma’am’. It was a mistake he only make once more before she cuffed him up the uninjured side of his head and he relented. He had to constantly remind himself to call her by name, rather than the honorary title befitting a mother and the matriarch of a village. Apparently it made her feel like on old crone, not that she was many more winters older than her younger brother as far as Leto could tell.

They filled the rest of the evening with more conversation, getting to know each other more and in the case of Gerdur and Hod, finding out what had been happening in the civil war. It would seem that Riverwood had similar problems with getting news as Leto’s home had; the village was too small to receive much traffic and updates were few and far between or so outlandish that they had to be nothing more than propaganda. While the talk of war was happening, Leto kept his promise to Frodnar and helped clear up the lunch and dinner dishes. When the boy’s mother seemed less than impressed, Leto just gave her the sweetest smile he could conjure and it was her turn to relent.

Not long after he sat back down, Leto realised that if he was going to be visiting a Jarl, he should probably find out what he was in for. He’d heard of the palace the Jarl of Whiterun lived in, Dragonsreach, and that it had once been a prison or some-such to a powerful dragon. A few days ago, he had thought it just another of his mother’s wild tales… but now he was beginning to wonder if maybe he shouldn’t have paid more attention to her attempts at history lessons rather than throwing snowberries at his sister. Aside from the name of the palace and that it was apparently at the top of a hill so the Jarl could watch over his city, he didn’t have the faintest idea of what to expect. He was even only assuming that the Jarl was a man.

The talk of Ulfric and Imperial treachery seemed to have lulled enough, so Leto decided to ask his question now, mostly aimed at Gerdur, as she was the one he guessed would know the most. Hod had made it clear that beyond what affected his family, he cared little for politics.

“What can you tell me about the Jarl?”

“Jarl Balgruuf?” Gerdur swallowed a mouthful of mead to give herself time to think. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, as he’s ruled Whiterun Hold well for years, but he seems in over his head now.” Seeing her guest’s confusion she quickly continued. “He’s been trying to stay out of the war, but it can’t last. He’s going to have to pick a side. I’m afraid he’s going to make the wrong choice.”

Leto knew that she meant she believed he would side with the Empire. He didn’t envy the Jarl’s position at all. Did he side with the law or with a rebellion that was fighting for the traditional Nord way of life? Did he chose to rally under the banner of a man who claimed to have the best interests of the people of Skyrim in his heart, or with an Empire that claimed the only way to keep their freedom was to sacrifice some liberties?

“Is he loyal to Empire?” Leto found himself asking.

If he was going to be walking straight up to the man’s throne, he may as well learn all he could. The war had been going on for longer than Leto had even realised, which meant there were going to be a lot of political… _things_ going on in a Jarl’s court that he wasn’t even going to begin to understand. May as well make sure he wasn’t going to put his foot in his mouth by saying something stupid about the Empire if the man was loyal to it.

Gerdur gave a thoughtful frown. “I wouldn’t say that… but he and Ulfric have been at odds for years, and I’m afraid Balgruuf will end up siding with the Empire because of it.” As though to convince herself of something, she forced a chuckle. “But it’s hard to believe that even Balgruuf would choose Elisif over Ulfric.”

Leto blinked at her, hoping she’d elaborate. Great, another name he didn’t recognise that sounded significant to the civil war.

When Gerdur didn’t continue, he knew he’d have to prompt her. “Who’s Elisif?”

Gerdur stared at him blankly for a moment, clearly wondering if he was joking. She shook herself out of her shock quickly, however. “Of course, you wouldn’t have heard much about the war that deep into the mountains. I suppose she’s Jarl Elisif now. She married High King Torygg just before Ulfric killed him. The Empire supports her claim to be High Queen. I don’t really have anything against her – not her fault that her husband Torygg was bought and paid for by the Empire.”

And that was about the point Leto found himself tuning out. It wasn’t that he didn’t value Gerdur’s opinions, but all he had wanted to know about was what to expect from Jarl Balgruuf. The added information that he now knew the name of Skyrim’s former High King – which he would never admit to anyone he hadn’t known before – was also a bonus, as was knowing the other side in the Stormcloak versus Imperial debate, but by the Nine he didn’t want another spiel about ‘faithless Imperials’ and how wonderful Ulfric was. All he wanted was information he could process. His smarts had never been his strong suit, a fact his family had always liked to remind him of, and if he tried to listen to all of the things he was being told now, by morning he wouldn’t even remember what Hold he was in.

Leto kept asking questions of the family, tuning out the needless information and keeping a hold of what he needed. It was a little embarrassing being a Nord and not knowing half of what he was supposed to about his own land, that he claimed he had lived in his entire life, despite what the powers-that-be said. He was grateful that Ralof’s family didn’t judge him, simply explained the state of Skyrim so that he wouldn’t blunder over anything that could wind him up back at the chopping block.

Finally, Leto decided to ask the one question he had been dreading. But with everything he had just learned – it seemed that isolation and being between the two lands that were the centre of the conflict had kept him more ignorant of what was going on than even he had thought – he knew he needed to ask it.

“I heard that Ulfric Stormcloak killed the High King… but there are different versions of that story. What really happened?”

He wasn’t sure he could expect absolute honesty, but then again, for all of her support of the Stormcloaks, Gerdur did seem to have her head screwed on properly. And Leto hoped that his imploring expression was enough for her to realise that he didn’t want political propaganda; he wanted truth.

The woman paused and studied him for a moment before nodding. It would seem she had read his face well enough. “Some say ‘murdered’, but it was a lawful challenge in the old way. Are you familiar with what that is?”

Leto nodded. Finally, something he understood! “Aye, my mother was a priestess. My sister and I were raised with the old traditions.”

Gerdur seemed pleased by that answer. “Well, Ulfric called Torygg out as a traitor to Skyrim. It was single combat, and Ulfric won. If Torygg couldn’t defend his throne, he had no business being High King. And as with the old way, Ulfric’s claim to the throne is legitimate. But the Empire refuse to acknowledge it and say that he simply murdered Torygg.”

Leto nodded. If the Jarl of Windhelm was telling the truth, and the Old Ways were invoked, then yes he did indeed have a legitimate claim to Skyrim’s throne. The ancient laws and customs, while often forgotten about, were still adhered to no matter how long since they’d been used by Nords. While the influence of the Empire had seen new customs introduced – even his village had noticed that much of a change – Ulfric was obviously a traditional kind of Jarl, sticking to the ancient ways rather than Cyrodiilic customs like many did now. But Leto still had to wonder if the man was as true as he claimed. Sometimes he heard things that made him wonder. But then again, he couldn’t exactly rely on anything he’d been told by the few traveller’s through his former village – be they good or bad about either side in the civil war. Hearsay was dangerously bias and most of those travellers were passing on third hand information anyway. Not to mention even what little he had heard had been proven to be severely outdated at best during his conversation with Ralof’s family.

Best to keep out of it, just like his father had told him, and stick to the task at hand: delivering the news and the call for aid to the Jarl of Whiterun. But by the gods his head was spinning. Everything he was learning was just too overwhelming on top of the emotional turmoil he was feeling. He wished he had just blundered into Whiterun totally ignorant of anything. At least then his brain wouldn’t be as addled as his heart.

The cure for both was slid over to him by Hod: another bottle of mead. The stocky man could see their guest’s struggle to slow his mind and gripped his wife’s arm. “Alright, enough of this talk woman, let the poor boy rest. He and Ralof have both been through enough without sparking up another sermon on the Empire’s treachery. And Frodnar will never sleep if you keep filling his head with this nonsense.”

Gerdur looked ready to bite back that he had also been doing his fair share of speaking in their conversation, as had Ralof, but when he gave a subtle nod over to Leto, she held her tongue. “You’re right, love. This may be the last night we have our guests, so we should celebrate.”

From then on, a silent agreement went around the table that nothing more of the civil war was to be discussed. Both Ralof and Leto needed rest to regain their strength from the ordeal they had just overcome, and filling their heads with worry, confusion and thoughts death wasn’t going to help achieve that goal. And if Leto was going to be leaving in the morning for Whiterun, he would certainly need all the energy he could muster. They drank and talked, settling on lighter topics once more and occasionally tossing bits of food from dinner’s leftovers to the family dog, Stump, who would look imploringly at the humans if they took too long to notice his wretched state of misery.

As the night wore on, Leto’s emotions were churning like a leaf in a blizzard and he could hardly keep up with his own moods. One minute he was fine, drinking and talking with his hosts while he rested to regain his energy… but the next he felt like curling into a ball on the floor and screaming at the gods for all he had lost.

Ralof’s family were patient with him. They didn’t embarrass him by drawing attention to his change in mood; when he fell quiet and his shoulders slumped, or when silent tears streamed down his cheeks. They encouraged him when he perked back up and started joking again, Hod sliding another bottle of mead over.

It wasn’t until Frodnar was discovered to have fallen asleep at the table that they realised how late it was. Resuming her role as mother and older sister, Gerdur started shooing everyone to bed. Leto insisted that the lad have his own bed back. He was more than happy to curl up in front of the fire. He was full of mead, and was fairly certain he could probably actually fall asleep outside in the chicken coop if he had to. Hod and Gurder both tried to insist that he have the bed again, but when Leto kept to his stubbornness, they laid out a pile of animal furs and blankets in front of the hearth. Ralof wound up sharing the single bed with his nephew and his sister and brother-in-law got their own bed back for the night.

Even with how tired Leto now realised he was, he couldn’t fall asleep. He was warm and comfortable and Stump had decided that the young Nord was going to be his pillow after being kicked off first Hod and Gerdur’s bed and then Frodnar’s, but still his mind wouldn’t shut down. It was in the silence of the night, when everyone else was sleeping soundly that he allowed himself to dwell on his emotions that he’d tried so hard to push away while they had all been seated at the dining table. Leto absently scratched the hound’s silky ears, lost in thought but grateful for the beast’s simple affection. The steady heartbeat and breath against his chest was comforting, as was the weight of his head. The hound’s big eyes were trained on Leto, silently offering all the comfort an animal could with his wordless loyalty and warm body.

With the soft snores of the household and the gentle crackle of the fire beside him, Leto found his eyes quickly grew too heavy to keep open and let them fall closed. The maelstrom of emotion raging in his head was beginning to fade into background noise, his tired mind still groggily trying to sift through it. Drowsiness lent him a kind of clarity that he hadn’t been able to grasp when he’d been fully awake and battling to contain himself in front of his new friend and his family.

There was nothing he could do to save his family, they were already gone. He couldn’t turn back time. But he was a Nord, and death was a part of a North Man’s life. He may have no idea what his future held beyond delivering a message but he would find his way. His family, his friends, everyone he had known and loved, they were all in Sovngarde, celebrating a life-well lived and watching him, just as Ralof had said. He wouldn’t disappoint them by wallowing in self-pity.

No, every Nord had to face death. Most were lucky in that they didn’t lose everything in a single night like he had, but he couldn’t keep feeling sorry for himself, or he’d wind up dead too and unworthy of entering Shor’s Hall. And if he wanted to be able to embrace his family again, then he had to live like a true Nord. That didn’t mean he was going to join the Stormcloaks, his father and the war veterans that served as guards in his village had taught him better than to join a cause you didn’t know anything about just to try and find a place to belong. But he wasn’t going to let the nightmares take him, or fear that he might encounter bandits or another dragon. If the gods had that planned for him, so be it. But until they called him, he would live every day to make his family and his gods proud. Maybe they had a reason for sparing him when he could have died so many different ways recently.

Now the only problem he had to face was what in Oblivion he was going to do with himself. He had no money except what he’d scrounged from the dead Imperials and whatever he could get for selling the random assortment of items that were in his knapsack… and that wouldn’t last him long once he replaced the Stormcloak armour and bought supplies. He would need to find work, somehow keep a roof over his head…

A huff of hot breath in his face had him opening one eye. In the firelight he could see Stump looking at him almost imploringly. Maybe he could sense that Leto’s mind was going back down a dark path.

“Aye, you’re right, boy. Cross that bridge when I get to it, huh?”

In response the hound nuzzled into his broad chest and sighed contentedly. Leto couldn’t help but chuckle and petted his ears again, letting his eye close. Stump was right, there was no point stressing about what he couldn’t change that night. Whiterun was the capital of the Hold, surely he’d be able to pick up a few jobs to hold him over until he could find something permanent. And if he didn’t, then he’d just have to move on until he did. He definitely wouldn’t make a good mercenary, but he did have skills he could fall back on. Maybe he could finish learning the blacksmith’s trade by apprenticing to someone. Skyrim was a big place, he’d manage. No matter the struggle, he’d make his family proud and make the most of the hand fate had dealt him.

It was the Nord way; the way his parents had taught him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was not terribly eventful, but i felt it needed to happen. As all of us know, when we add histories and stories to our characters, we make them people, rather than just a bunch of pixels on screen. I felt that i needed to have Leto have some time to try and catch up on what has happened to him.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Please review :)


	7. The Road to Whiterun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small request, but the only purpose he has right now. Who knows, maybe the city will offer new life.

When the next morning arrived, Leto was awoken by Stump licking his face. He had never been a morning person, and almost tripped over several times on his way to let the dog outside. The rest of the cottage seemed to find it amusing and they all gathered around the table for breakfast.

It had been decided that Leto would be setting off once he’d eaten, much to Frodnar’s disappointment. He insisted that his new friend come back soon. Gerdur made it clear that Leto was more than welcome in their home any time. She had prepared some food for his journey and rustled up what coin the family could spare to give him.

The young Nord felt guilty for taking even more of their supplies, but knew he wasn’t going to escape without them, so he thanked her and put them in the knapsack he had snagged from Helgen’s torture chamber. Ralof insisted that he keep everything that was inside it, whether to sell or use, because after he was done recovering and laying low in Riverwood, he would have all he needed once he fell back in with the Stormcloak ranks.

As it turned out, the bag had come with a few extra items that Leto would be able to sell for a little extra coin. It wouldn’t exactly make him rich, but with an uncertain future ahead of him, he’d take any single septim he could get. He could probably sell the potions he and Ralof had collected from Helgen and the other bits and pieces that were already in the knapsack for enough coin to keep an inn roof over his head and hot meals for a few days. And when that failed, well, he was a Nord; sleeping out under the stars wouldn’t kill him. He’d gladly sacrifice a bed for food.

He bade farewell to Gerdur and Hod so they could get to work at the sawmill. Frodnar didn’t want him to go but eventually ran off to go and find his little friend, Stump bounding along beside him.

Leto turned to Ralof and the Stormcloak smiled. “You look after yourself.”

The younger Nord nodded. “You too, my friend. Make sure you rest well before going back to Windhelm.”

Ralof drew him into a crushing embrace, thumping Leto’s back. “I will.”

Struggling to breathe, he returned the gesture, knowing that he was going to miss his new friend, even given the circumstances of their meeting. “I hope we’ll meet again one day.”

Ralof drew back to squeeze Leto’s shoulders, grinning. “Maybe we’ll meet up on the road one time, eh? Or maybe one day you’ll join the Stormcloaks.”

Leto chuckled and shook his head. Ralof really wasn’t going to drop his joining the war any time soon, it seemed. “Maybe. Or maybe next time you see me I’ll be a master blacksmith.”

“I look forward to the day. Take care of yourself now. And watch out for any Imperial patrols on the road.”

“I will.”

With one last squeeze of Leto’s shoulder, Ralof bid him farewell. “May the gods watch over your battles, friend.”

“Talos guide you.”

He knew that parting comment may not have been the wisest thing to say given how much he’d tried to insist he wasn’t going to join the Stormcloaks, but he was a true Nord at heart and from a traditional, gods-worshipping household. His family had kept a small shrine to all the gods, including Talos, hidden away in their basement behind a stack of smithing crates. And even though he wasn’t going to join the rebellion, he wasn’t going to deny any of his gods, even if calling the Ninth anything but ‘Ysmir’ felt strange.

And with that, they parted. Ralof returned indoors to keep laying low, and Leto moved off down the street. He was acutely aware that he was back wearing his borrowed armour, but he planned to remedy that soon. The only problem was that he couldn’t remember where the blacksmith was. When he and Ralof had arrived in the village, he hadn’t really been able to pay attention to the tour.

When he saw Gerdur and Hod still walking down the street he jogged to catch up, calling out. She paused and glanced back.

“Sorry to hold you up, but is there anywhere I can buy supplies? Not that what you have given me wasn’t kind but…” He trailed off when she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.

“And by ‘supplies’ I suppose you mean weapons and armour?”

Leto smiled sheepishly and picked at some loose threads on his cuirass. “Aye. If I’m going to be speaking to the Jarl I don’t think I should turn up in Stormcloak blues.”

She chuckled. “You’re probably right. Alvor can help you out. He’s our blacksmith. And Lucan runs the Riverwood Trader across the street from him, along with his sister. Apparently thieves broke in but they hardly took anything.”

Leto glanced in the direction she was gesturing. He could now see a thick plume of smoke, accompanied by the ringing clangs of a hammer on metal. “Thank you Gerdur. For everything.”

She smiled and patted his back as he started toward the blacksmith. “Don’t be a stranger. Oh, and one more thing;” she waited for the young Nord to glance back before stepping in close so as not to be overheard. “Mind what you say to Alvor. His family supports the Empire. His nephew, who lived with him, is in the Legion. From what Ralof told me, he was at Helgen too. Hadvar.”

He nodded and immediately remembered the Nord who had been reading the list at the foot of his carriage. The last he’d seen of the soldier, he’d been fleeing into the keep, but when Leto and Ralof had encountered the Legionnaires inside, he hadn’t been a part of any group. Maybe he had decided to wait inside for General Tullius rather than try to escape with the rest.

“Thanks for the warning. I won’t mention Ralof.”

The din of metalwork grew louder as he approached the workshop. When Leto climbed the wooden steps a man roughly Hod’s age glanced up from the hearth. His face was smudged with soot and sweat. Even though it was only early, he looked like he had already been working hard for a few hours.

The young Nord never even got the chance to open his mouth before the smith was looking him over with something akin to disgust and straightening up. “You a Stormcloak, boy?”

“No, sir, I’m not,” Leto stammered. He hadn’t expected the man to be that blunt and it caught him off-guard.

“You’re dressed like one.”

Leto glanced down at his borrowed armour. “Aye, but I’m not one. That’s why I’m here. I want to buy new armour.”

Alvor grunted and cast his eyes over him again, this time with more of an appraising eye than a judgmental one. His focus seemed to settle on the young man’s hip and a heavy eyebrow quirked.

“So how did you come to wear Stormcloak armour but wield an Imperial blade?”

“It’s a long story, sir,” Leto murmured, not really feeling like explaining himself, “but the end of it was I wound up going to the wrong place for help and nearly being killed more ways than I can count.”

The blacksmith gave a humourless chuckle. “Stormcloaks can’t help you, boy. All they’re doing is hurting this land. But if you’re looking to get rid of that armour, I don’t mind taking it off your hands. I could do with something to wipe my arse with.”

The young Nord wasn’t sure if snorting out in laughter was the wisest course of action, but it seemed to earn him the blacksmith’s approval, especially when he added, “I’d be careful if you’re going to, sir. There are a few links broken and they may catch.”

Alvor seemed to lose all the tension he’d built up at having a young Nord approach in Stormcloak armour. He dusted his hand off on his pants and held it out for Leto to shake. “Sorry for the rough greeting, lad. The name’s Alvor and whatever you need, by Ysmir, if it’s simple and strong, I can forge it.”

Leto decided he liked this man already. He even called the Ninth Divine by what Leto had always been taught was the ‘right’ name. “That’s exactly what I need, sir. I don’t much fancy wandering around in this armour. I needed it at the time, but I need to replace it now.”

“Hmm… I think I can help you out.” The smith moved to a chest at the back of his work area and opened it up.

While he was rummaging around inside, he seemed happy to chat away. Leto didn’t mind in the least. “Ain’t every day we get visitors in Riverwood. Where are you from traveller?”

The innocent enough question made Leto’s heart ache, but he quickly reminded himself of the pact he’d made the night before about moving on, making his family proud that he survived when no one else did. He was fairly certain the man was still a little worried he might be a rebel, and at the very least wasn’t used to new faces passing through. Leto remembered the feeling of meeting strangers well. A small village didn’t receive much traffic and Leto himself had badgered travellers relentlessly for any news of the outside world on the rare occasion they had one.

He swallowed his emotions at the brief reminder of the past and forced himself to smile. “I’m from Stuhnvall. It was a small village in the Jerall Mountains… but it’s gone now. Bandits destroyed it.”

The blacksmith glanced back up sharply, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, lad. I didn’t mean to…”

“Not your fault, sir. You didn’t know.”

To hide his awkwardness, Alvor went back to rummaging in the chest. “So, you looking for heavy or light armour?”

It was Leto’s turn to feel uncomfortable. “Honestly, anything that’s cheap. I’m a little low on coin at the moment.”

Alvor chuckled. “No offence, but I guessed as much, what with you running around looking like a rebel. But I’ve got an order that’s been sitting around gathering dust for a while now. Big man, just like you. Should fit you well enough and I can do it for you cheap since he left me hanging for payment. Never turned up to get it once I’d finished making it.”

True to the smith’s word, the armour he finally drew from the chest fit. Leto breathed a sigh of relief once he was free of the constricting Stormcloak cuirass. He was glad he’d never have to squeeze himself into it again. Even though the steel armour was heavier than anything he’d ever worn in his entire life, the weight was comforting and he could at least fill his lungs to their capacity without worrying he’d crush his ribcage or explode out of it. And the best part was that he charged less than half of what the suit was actually worth.

When Leto walked away from the workshop he was grateful but also broke. If he hadn’t been given a discount, there was no way in Oblivion he could have afforded the new armour. It may not have been the most ornate piece he’d ever seen – Leto had seen his father craft some beautiful suits before – but it was definitely strong and would keep his insides where they were meant to be. He clanked with every step, the reinforced skirt-piece slapping against his knees in a way that probably should have been uncomfortable, but he found the weight and noise reassuring. Steel was a good, strong metal, and the Nordic craftsmanship was honest and respectable. It was the perfect attire for an audience with a Jarl. And it wasn’t stained with the blood of former owners or enemies.

Leto made his way across the street to the two story building that housed the village’s general store, narrowly avoiding being bowled over by Stump as Frodnar and his friend chased after him. He chuckled and shook his head when he realised that neither of the children had even noticed the near collision, too determined to catch the hound. His amusement came to an abrupt halt when he opened the door to the Riverwood Trader and was met with raised voices.

“Well one of us has to do something!” a young Imperial woman shouted, her fists clenched at her sides.

Leto stopped in the doorway, wondering if maybe he should back away slowly and come back later. He’d forgotten that Gerdur had said something about a break-in. Before he could make up his mind, the male behind the counter, who he assumed to be the owner, Lucan, slammed his open palms down on the bench, making the few items on it tremble.

“I said no! No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!”

The woman barked out a derisive laugh and stepped closer to the counter, clearly unimpressed by Lucan’s decision. “Well what are you going to do then, huh? Let’s hear it!”

Leto wondered if maybe he should clear his throat. Obviously neither of them had noticed his arrival and he felt more than a little rude at intruding on what was clearly a private family matter.

He was relieved when Lucan held his hand up to signal an end to their discussion – a gesture that did not go over well with the young woman. “We are done talking about this.”

She recoiled as though he had insulted her and her eyes widened in fury. She opened her mouth to shriek something but Lucan had already started to turn away. His eyes landed on Leto and he stiffened.

“Oh, a customer,” he murmured and cleared his throat, trying to regain his shopkeeper’s composure. “Sorry you had to hear that.”

The woman’s head snapped around to take in the awkward young Nord still standing in the open doorway. Sensing that, for now at least, the argument really was over she huffed and stomped across the room toward a table and chairs near the hearth. “Maybe you could talk some sense into my pig-headed brother.”

Lucan shot his sister a glare and signalled for her to close her mouth, to which the response was a particularly rude hand gesture that would have had Leto’s mother tanning his hide until he begged for mercy if he’d done it. The shopkeeper’s eyes bulged and he sputtered as he turned his attention to his Nordic customer who was cautiously approaching the counter as though terrified he might be caught in the crossfire of a full-on family feud.

“I don’t know what you overheard, but the Riverwood Trader is still open. Feel free to shop.”

Leto lifted his knapsack onto the counter and unbuckled the flap. “I’ve got some things to sell; a few potions and other bits and pieces,” he explained as he hunted through the pack and unloaded everything he didn’t want or need. “But I’m looking for a map and supplies for travelling.”

Lucan nodded and started hunting through his shelves that looked as though they were normally well organised but were now in a chaotic state.

For the sake of conversation and still feeling a little uncomfortable, Leto decided to talk. “Did something happen?”

The second the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. The shop owner glanced up from his searching long enough to fix him with a look that oozed so much sarcasm Leto wondered if he wouldn’t need to mop his floors later, and his sister gave a snort. Before he could apologise, the shopkeeper slid a mask of professionalism over his face and resumed his hunt for a map and travel supplies.

“Yes, we had a bit of a… break-in. But we still have plenty to sell.” The Imperial’s brow furrowed in agitation and he shifted papers on a shelf with a little more roughness than was necessary. “Robbers were only after one thing. An ornament, solid gold. In the shape of a dragon’s claw.”

The words were out of Leto’s mouth before he even really realised he’d spoken. “I could help you get the claw back.”

He wished he could kick himself. How stupid was he?! He didn’t have the skills to go thief-chasing and he didn’t even know where they had fled to. But the reality was he could do with the reward he’d likely receive if he could track the trinket down. Not to mention he needed some direction for his suddenly purposeless life.

Lucan’s eyes glimmered with surprise and hope as he stared at the young Nord with a slack jaw. “You could?”

Leto nodded. “Aye. I’ve got a message I need to deliver to Whiterun first, but then I can set out and look for it… if you have any leads on where the thieves have gone.”

“I’ve got some coin coming in from my last shipment. It’s yours if you bring my claw back. The robbers are hiding out in Bleak Falls Barrow, northeast of town.”

Somehow Leto managed to keep the dread from his face. Bleak Falls Barrow, the ruin that Ralof had pointed out on their way to Riverwood. The ruin that had resembled some dark, skeletal monster crouched on the mountainside. A place that, like every other ancient ruin that dotted Skyrim’s landscape, bred nightmares and rumours like skeevers did disease.

What had he just offered to do?

He was torn out of his self-reprimand by Lucan speaking to his sister. “So now you don’t have to go, do you?”

Apparently still determined to not be ordered around, her dark eyebrow quirked and she smirked. “Oh really? Well I think your new helper here needs a guide.”

Ysmir’s balls, maybe the Barrow had nothing to fear compared to these two feuding siblings. Leto and his own sister could raise unholy chaos when they battled, and even though these two Imperials were much smaller than he or his sister had been in many years, the ferocity of their stubbornness suggested that they could do some damage before they were separated.

Lucan seemed taken aback and the young Nord saw a brief flash of panic in the man’s eyes at the thought of his sister – clearly the younger of the two – charging into the lair of the thieves. “Wh- no… I… oh, by the Eight, fine,” he relented. “But only to the edge of town!”

A satisfied grin spread across her face and she rose from her seat. With a flourish that was clearly to further rub her victory in her brother’s face, she gestured toward the door. “This way.”

“Uh…” Leto looked back to Lucan pleadingly. He hadn’t even finished what he had actually come to the Trader for!

“Let the man finish his business first!” the Imperial growled.

He looked more than a little pleased with himself when his sister blushed and mumbled an apology.

When they finished up, Leto had sold everything he didn’t need to Lucan and replaced it with a map, a single healing potion that he vowed he’d only use in an absolute emergency and various other things that he thought he would need to get him by. He even managed to afford a cake of plain, unscented soap and a spare set of clothes that would fit him. He was left with only a few Septims to his name, but with the food Gerdur had given him he would have all he needed to hold him over for maybe a few days. He’d likely be sleeping outside, but at least he’d be able to eat. And, who knew, maybe the Jarl would reward him for bringing word of the dragon attack on Helgen. It would certainly make his life a little easier for the time being.

The young Nord and the shopkeeper bid each other a good day, and immediately his sister opened the door to usher him out and give him directions to the Barrow.

She closed the door behind her and held her hand out. “I’m Camilla, by the way.”

Leto shook her hand gently. “Leto.” He wondered if he should be polite and say something like ‘it’s a pleasure to meet you’ even if it had been nothing but awkwardness, but he never got the chance.

Camilla skipped – actually _skipped_ – to the edge of the wooden boardwalk outside the shop, dragging Leto along by his arm, so they could look up the mountain across the White River without Alvor’s house and shop obstructing the view. “We have to go through town and across the bridge to get to Bleak Falls Barrow.” She pointed to the ruins that sent a shudder up the Nord’s spine at the very thought of willingly going closer. “You can see it from here, though. The mountain just over the buildings.”

Leto managed to pry his arm back from her grip as she started heading down the road in the direction of the village’s inn. He didn’t share her enthusiasm at all and didn’t really want to be dragged around like some puppy. After a split second, her words sank in and he quickly gripped her shoulder to spin her around so she could see his scowl – even if he was trying not to laugh.

“Nice try, ma’am, but there’s no ‘we’. You’re pointing me in the right direction, and then you’re going back to your brother. The only thing I fancy less than actually going to that place, is having said brother coming after me with a sword because I let his unarmed, un _armoured_ sister come along.”

Her dark eyes glittered with mischief and she crossed her arms over her chest – a gesture Leto was beginning to think she had been perfecting since childhood, one that was awfully similar to his own sister. It must be a sister thing, he decided. “I don’t always do what my brother tells me, you know.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “I get that impression. But I somehow don’t think the place was called ‘Bleak Falls’ because it’s a nice place for a picnic.”

Her face abruptly lost its cheer and she shuddered. “Ugh, you’re right. Those thieves must be mad, hiding out there.” She turned and continued leading the young Nord out of the village. “Those old crypts are filled with nothing but traps, trolls, and who knows what else!”

 _Draugr, skeevers, ghosts, unstable ceilings…_ Leto couldn’t stop his dark thoughts from continuing the list. With every second he was regretting more and more his offer to track down the ornament. His friends and family had always liked to comment on his lack of brains being the thing that would get him into trouble one day, but even they wouldn’t have been able to guess that it would be because he offered help when he would have been better keeping his teeth together. Maybe he could just… not go to the Barrow? Maybe he would ‘forget’ or get caught up in Whiterun and just not be able to go crawling through the nightmare-breeding ruin…

That would make him a coward though.

Completely oblivious to Leto’s internal debate, Camilla kept talking. “I wonder why they only stole Lucan’s golden claw. I mean, we have plenty of things in the shop that are worth just as much coin.”

The young Nord suspected that it probably had something to do with the fact that it was a solid gold ornament. He may not know much about values of trinkets, but if he saw a statue made of gold, he’d suspect it was the most valuable thing in a shop that sold knickknacks… especially in a small village that wouldn’t see much trade.

His musings made him miss what the Imperial said next, but he was brought out of them when he realised she had stopped and was leaning against the stone banister of the bridge that Ralof and he had bathed beneath the previous day.

“This is the bridge out of town. The path up the mountain to the northwest leads to Bleak Falls Barrow. I guess I should get back to my brother. He’ll throw a fit if I take too long. Such a child…”

Leto gave a brief glance to the landscape around him, spotting the narrow dirt path she had indicated. As she was moving off, he gave her a small smile. “Don’t hold it against your brother, ma’am. Trust me, all a brother wants is to keep his sister safe. Don’t waste your energy being angry with him… you might lose him one day and all you’ll want is to have him back annoying you.”

Camilla’s eyes softened and she looked torn between making a joke and asking if he was speaking from experience. Instead, she took one of his large hands between hers and returned his smile. “Mara bless you for agreeing to help us.”

Leto just nodded. “How much farther do I have to walk?”

“Well, it’s a winding road up the mountain. You’ll know you’re in the right place once you spot the old watchtower. Once you get to that, head north. Bleak Falls Barrow should be just around the corner further up. Oh, you bought a map, didn’t you? I’ll mark it all down.”

He pulled the map out and Camilla found a stick of charcoal in her satchel. She repeated her instruction, emphasising them with a finger tracing the path on the parchment and little black marks. Once done, Leto folded the map back up and tucked it into his knapsack.

“I’d best get moving. I have to go to Whiterun and deliver a message before I go and find your claw. I’ll try to be fast though, ma’am.”

Camilla giggled and twirled a stray lock of hair that had fallen from her careful braids around a finger. The sudden change to girlish behaviour confused him, and the other hand that ran up his bicep to curl in the fur that protected his skin from the naked steel of his new armour made him decidedly uncomfortable.

“Good luck, Leto. Lucan and I will be waiting for you back in the shop.”

All he could do was nod thickly, but what he wanted to do was run across the bridge. This strange… whatever it was the young Imperial was doing was making him even less inclined to go and retrieve her brother’s ornament than he had already been.

“I… I’ll take my leave, then.”

“Hurry back.”

Leto decided that he was going to hurry _away_ instead. He didn’t stop jogging until he could no longer see Riverwood. What on Nirn had _that_ been about? Maybe Lucan had more reason to want to keep his sister in eye-line than just an adventurous spirit. Poor man!

Shaking the thoughts of the Imperil woman away, Leto decided to sit down on a fallen tree and have lunch. As he munched on the snowberry pie Gerdur had wrapped in cloth for him he looked at the map with its new markings. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d bought it in the first place. He couldn’t read the damned thing. He recognised some of the symbols – such as the one that marked Whiterun – but the name written beneath was beyond him. And the little picture of a house he guessed might mean village, since it looked like one was drawn in the same place where Riverwood was.

And he only knew where he was because Camilla had just made marks near that little symbol and up onto another that he guessed was supposed to represent the mountain. At least he could figure out which parts of the map indicated water; they were coloured in blue. But words, distances and most of the symbols were beyond him. He’d been training as a blacksmith, he’d had no need to learn letters or how to read a map. His mother had tried, but quickly given up when he’d shown no interest in sitting down for hours at a time to stare at books. His father had prompted the ending of those lessons, thinking that instead their son should focus on a skill that would actually get him by in life. Leto had learned to count, though; he needed to help his pa keep track of how many supplies they had in the storage crates.

Divines, he wished he had have concentrated harder now. What good was being able to just scratch out his own name and recognise a few symbols now he was out on his own? At least, given that he was heading for the Hold capital, there should be an easy road to follow the whole way. And from what he’d gathered from his conversations with Ralof and his family, the journey shouldn’t take much longer than a few hours. And the only real danger would be Imperial patrols, which he wasn’t terribly concerned about anyway. If he saw them, he’d just move to the other side of the road. He wasn’t on any of their lists – not that it had made much difference in Helgen – but he doubted that anyone from the doomed town would be out and patrolling again yet, nor that they’d recognise him anyway. He had just been another Nord destined for the chopping block, not even wearing Stormcloak blues. He’d just been a ragged prisoner, not a name or face.

And since any Imperial soldier had seen him, he’d had food, plenty of rest and bathed. And he was now in respectable armour, rather than threadbare and borrowed rebel armour. No, he wasn’t worried about encountering soldiers. And Whiterun apparently wasn’t Imperial territory anyway… though a few days ago he had thought that, even with the rebellion going on, all of Skyrim still counted as ‘Imperial territory’ as it was still a province of the Empire.

Politics. It was all too much for him.

After his lunch, he stuffed the map away and started walking again. The day was a surprisingly nice one considering the seasons were on the verge of turning. What passed as summer in Skyrim was rapidly fading – not that many ever considered it to even exist in the northernmost land – and soon autumn would fully set in. Leto had to admit he was a little curious to see the seasons changing. With his village’s location there had only ever really been two: snowing heavily and snowing lightly.

As Leto rounded the next bend he was brought to a halt at the sight before him. He was standing at the top of a hill, overlooking the rest of the paved road that led down to Whiterun and the view just about took his breath away. If he had thought Riverwood was alive with plant-life, he had been wrong. The plains surrounding the distant figure of the massive city and dotted with a few other buildings by the side of the wide road, were teeming with more greenery than the young Nord had ever seen in his entire life. The wind sent long grass and flowers swaying, their gentle rustle whispering on the breeze. Its alien beauty was enough to stun Leto into simply staring out over the open fields with his jaw hanging slack. He’d never even imagined such colour before. All he’d known before was white and grey. Compared to that, it was like his eyes were seeing for the very first time.

He could have stayed up there for the rest of the day, simply staring at the incredible scenery right before him, but a movement caught his eye and drew his attention away from the beauty.

One of the structures out in the plains turned out to be a farm. And at the same time as Leto was admiring the landscape, it was under attack by a giant. The huge humanoid looking creature was roaring and stomping his feet at what looked like a trio of warriors trying to fight it away from the house and crops. His club was slamming down onto the ground, spewing up dirt high into the air and having it rain back down onto the people trying to battle it. Though from the angle Leto stood it, it looked like they were doing no more damage than if they were simply flinging pebbles at it.

He didn’t even think. It was something that his sister used to tell him was his defining feature and would always cause a brawl between them… until their father forced them apart. Shoving the memory away, he raced toward the farm and the warriors trying to beat back the giant. He’d abandoned the road – he’d never make it in time if he kept to it – and his feet skidded and slid in the dirt and shrubbery covering the hillside as he fought not to trip.

He arrived just in time to see the creature raising a club that had likely been a fully grown tree before being torn out of the ground and roughly shaped. He – now that Leto was so close he could see the giant was obviously male – was aiming for a heavily armoured Nord who was either too fearless or too brainless to get out of the way. Leto skidded to a halt and sliced own the back of one knee that was around his head-height, throwing the giant’s balance off and distracting him from crushing his target into a lumpy paste. The next second Leto had to leap out of the way as the creature stumbled and tried to search for the new tiny one causing him pain.

The distraction let the other three warriors attack again, the large one that had almost become goo with a greatsword, a considerably smaller and more tanned Imperial woman with a shield and one-handed blade. The third warrior turned out to be an archer. She moved backward in confident strides, bow trained on the giant’s face and not needing to see where her feet landed to keep her balance.

“You should move, newcomer, or when that bastard falls it’ll be on top of you.”

The flame-haired archer didn’t need to tell him twice. He slashed out at the giant’s leg once more before darting between them – and making a mental note to find something to scrub his brain and eyes with after accidentally glancing upward – to come out in front of the huge creature.

No sooner had he made it out from under him, the giant crumpled to his knees. Leto then joined in the melee again to finish him off, he and the other large Nord hacking at the club-wielding side to prevent any further attack.

When the giant finally collapsed face first onto the ground, encouraging both Nords to stagger back out of the way or be squashed, Leto rested his hands on his knees to catch his breath. A heavy clap landed on his back and almost sent him into the dirt right next to the dead giant.

“You fight well,” the male warrior praised, a broad grin spreading across his face.

Leto could only grunt in response, not enough air left in his lungs to do anything else. He was glancing at the ornate decoration of the man’s chest piece when he felt another hand land on his shoulder, much gentler than the man’s.

He glanced to the side and saw it was the redheaded archer. She too was grinning, the three streaks of green war paint across her face slightly blurred with sweat. "You handle yourself well. You could make for a decent Shield-Brother.”

The young Nord straightened up, and glanced between her and her companions. “Shield-brother?”

"An outsider, eh? Never heard of the Companions?”

Leto felt his eyes grow wide. Oh, he had heard of them, alright. His father used to tell him stories of how, when he was a young boy, an elder had hired the Companions to come and clear out a cave of bears that had been attacking the village. During one of the attacks, one of the honoured warriors had actually saved his pa’s life when a bear had decided on making him lunch. Every time they were at the local tavern, he’d wind up showing off the scars on his thigh that the beast had given him before having a warhammer slammed down onto its skull.

He was drawn away from his thoughts when he realised that her armour was… not as heavy as her friends’. Even the Imperial woman’s armour was heavy compared to what the archer was wearing. She was still speaking, clearly unaware that he had recognised the name of the Companions or that his attention had wandered away from her rather attractive face, nor that he wasn’t actually hearing her words.

Unlike most every other suit of armour Leto had seen or helped craft, the set the Nordic archer was wearing didn’t hide a single curve of her body. It looked like Ancient Nordic armour, but he could see that the shaping was too precise, the metal too unblemished, for it to be that old. Someone had made an exact replica for this Companion… and they’d made it very well. It fitted her body perfectly. Leto had been raised in a very traditional household, even worshipping the Ancient gods of the Nordic people as well as the modern ones influenced by the Cyrodiilic Empire. He could appreciate the armour with not only the eye of a blacksmith in training, but also with a cultural one.

And of course with the eye of a young man seeing a beautiful woman in an outfit that revealed much more skin than he’d ever seen on one supposedly clothed.

It took Leto a moment to wonder which he was admiring more; the incredibly skilled craftsmanship, or the one wearing it. The redhead was still breathing heavily from the battle, and Leto could see her breasts heaving through the gaps in her armour; squashing against the leather front and deepening the groove of her cleavage visible through the ties. Leto figured out which he was appreciating more. But he’d be damned if he didn’t want to shake he blacksmith’s hand who had made the armour. Not only was it a perfect replica, but he’d made sure that the joins and gaps revealed all the best parts while still functioning as a protective garment.

The archer was still talking and Leto realised he was staring and not being very subtle at that. He blinked and quickly looked up to her face. He had no idea what she’d been saying… damn. And his eyeballs were suddenly so heavy they kept wanting to drop back down to that heaving chest.

When a delicate auburn eyebrow rose, Leto realised that she must be waiting for a response. Had she asked a question? Blood rushed to his cheeks and he was fairly certain his face matched her hair, the heat deepening when he heard the male Companion sniggering and caught the Imperial trying to hide a giggle behind her hand.

Trying to cover his blunder and incredible rudeness, he gulped and forced his eyes to remain in contact with hers. “How do you join? I mean, could I join the Companions?”

The woman looked him up and down and Leto suddenly felt like a deer being eyed by a sabre cat. "Not for me to say. You'll have to talk to Kodlak Whitemane up in Jorrvaskr. The old man's got a good sense for people. He can look in your _eyes_ and tell your worth.” She smiled at him, making sure he caught her slur on his behaviour, then nodded for her fellow warriors to follow as she started moving off.

They were a few yards away, Leto watching after them and wondering what had possessed him to ask if he could join – it wasn’t as though he was capable of doing much more than roaring and waving his sword around and getting lucky with his strikes – when the redhead tossed a glance over her shoulder.

“If you go to him, good luck."

“Uh… thank you, ma’am,” Leto managed to stammer back, eliciting more laughter from the other two Companions.

Unfortunately the three warriors were headed in the same direction that he was planning on going. Damnit. Hoping that he didn’t look anywhere near as stupid as he felt, he made his way past them, trying desperately to ignore the laughter from the male. His face was flushing to the point he could even feel his ears burning. He stared intently at the large stones that paved the road as he made his way toward the city as quickly as he could. Stendarr’s mercy, he had made a fool of himself. Not only with staring at the chest of a warrior that could probably kill him quicker than he could blink, but also in stupidly charging into battle against a _giant_ , of all things. Maybe his parents had been right with what they used to tell him; his sister had the brains in the family, while he had the muscle. And apparently an ability to get himself into trouble.

He barely noticed as he passed the stables, too busy kicking himself. Whiterun was supposed to be his chance at starting a new life after delivering Gerdur’s message to Jarl Balgruuf; his chance to make his family proud that he had survived the massacre that had claimed everyone else from his village. Instead he had agreed to go into some accursed ruin to help recover a stolen item for complete strangers and then a few hours later had raced half-way across a field to dive into a battle that he should have avoided… and then he’d behaved like a horny teenager and overtly stared at a warrior’s breasts.

Way to make his family proud.

It wasn’t until the front gates were looming before him and he felt a hand press firmly against his chest that he snapped out of his daze. He blinked up at the full-helm covered face of a Whiterun guard, swallowing the bolt of panic that shot up his spine that maybe he was being recaptured by Imperials.

“Halt! City’s closed with the dragons about. Official business only.”

News about mythical creatures returning from legend travelled fast, it seemed. Leto swallowed and straightened up, taking a step back from the guard to put a respectable distance between them. “That’s why I’m here, sir. I have news from Helgen about the dragon attack.”

The guard studied him closely from the eye-slits of his helm. Leto wasn’t particularly bothered by his scrutiny. He had no reason to be worried this man would know that he was supposed to be executed at the town – illegally or otherwise – and he knew he was telling the truth. He was a terrible liar, so he tended to err on the side of honesty.

The guard seemed to believe that he was telling the truth because he nodded and moved toward the gates to unlock them. “Fine, but we’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

Leto thanked him and pushed through the gates. He had arrived at Whiterun. He could deliver his message and then he could set about finding work and starting a new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the dull chapter name. When i wrote this, my brain just couldn't come up with anything better.
> 
> Also, did anyone else find Camilla creepy and far too flirty for a woman who already has two men swooning for her?


	8. Whiterun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he'd hoped for purpose and direction... he maybe should have been a little more specific.

It was still relatively early in the afternoon, plenty of time to deliver his message and start looking for work prospects. He’d planned on asking the first person he saw for directions to the Jarl’s palace but he hadn’t expected to find a small spark of hope at that first person being the city blacksmith, who seemed in desperate need of an extra set of hands.

He made his way over to the Imperial woman – who he had, at first glance, mistaken for a Redguard because of her dark skin and muscular build – who was watching a Nord in Imperial armour stalk away and shaking her head. From what Leto had overheard, the man had commissioned an order that even several blacksmiths working together wouldn’t be able to fill in under four months. When she heard him approaching she straightened up and replaced her frown with a shopkeeper’s smile.

“Looks like you need a hand around the forge.”

He’d meant it as a joke, a way to start a conversation before asking for directions, but he was surprised by what she said as she laughed. “Actually I do. You know anything about smithing?”

Maybe the gods were taking pity on him now that his entire life had been turned upside down and he had nothing to his name and no purpose but to deliver a message.

“Aye, I used to be an apprentice.”

She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. “Alright. If you’re looking for work, show me what you can do. Divines know I could use all the help I can get right now.” The look on his face must have been priceless because she laughed again. “I take it you overheard my conversation with Battle-Born, yes?” He nodded dumbly. “Well, I really can’t fill an order that size and as you can see, I have no apprentice here. So, if you want some more experience, let’s see what you’re made of.”

Leto stammered for a moment, unable to believe his luck. He almost thought he was dreaming. He had maybe ten septims to his name at the moment, and he’d just walked into a city he’d only ever heard tales about and found enough work and purpose to hold him over for a while, maybe even the whole winter if she truly intended to fulfil the huge order and deemed him useful enough.

“Uh… I… I have to deliver a message to Dragonsreach for Riverwood, but if you’re serious, ma’am, I’ll take you up on that offer as soon as I’m done.”

“Dragonsreach, huh?” See seemed to be examining him again, brow furrowing. “Well, if you’re headed that way anyway, would you mind doing me a small favour?”

Leto almost jumped in eagerness. While he probably had enough coin for a meal in the morning – he still had some food Gerdur had given him for that night – a room at the inn was probably out of the question… he didn’t even know what a night’s board cost. This woman had just all-but given him the promise of not needing to spend the next months wondering where his next meal was coming from and the security of having a roof over his head. Depending on when he started for her, he might only be sleeping rough for a few days, and that he could handle. She could ask him to sing her a ballad and he’d likely agree.

“Of course, ma’am. What do you need?”

She chuckled at his eagerness. “My names Adrianne. I’d like you to deliver a sword. I just finished it and it is my best work. I made it for the Jarl, Balgruuf the Greater. It’s a surprise, and I don’t even know it he’ll accept it. But… listen, could you take it to my father, Proventus Avenicci? He’s the Jarl’s steward. He’ll know the right time to present it to him.”

“I’d be honoured,” Leto assured her. She was willing to test him as a potential apprentice, delivering a sword to a place he’d already been going was really the least he could do for her.

Adrianne instructed the young Nord to wait while she went and retrieved the sword. Leto obeyed and glanced around the city while he did so. He’d never seen a place so busy. Further up the road he could see a market circle and the calls of the stall owners, praising their wares, reached his ears even this far away. He watched a gaggle of children racing around the city, completely oblivious of the people they were nearly bowling over, including guards, in their mad dash to make it… somewhere. It seemed that it was three girls against one boy, who was shrieking as he tried to put as much distance between he and his chasers as possible. Leto couldn’t help but burst out laughing as a particularly quick witted old woman snagged the boy’s ear as he tried to burst past her. His pleas for release fell on deaf ears as the woman chastised him for his recklessness and the girls skidded to a halt before turning and running back the way they had come, not wanting to share their friend’s fate of being scolded.

He was still watching the scene when the door to the blacksmith’s shop opened and Adrianne reappeared, holding a sheathed greatsword. The ornate scabbard immediately tore his attention from the antics of the children. It was clear that months of work had gone into the crafting of the weapon, its housing alone told him that much.

The blacksmith seemed proud to receive that kind of reaction to her best work and slid the blade out to show it off a little more. Leto was happy to allow his admiration to show. He had been honoured to be his father’s apprentice because of the man’s skill, but he had never seen the man craft anything like this. It may be the best work Adrianne had ever completed, but aside from the replica Ancient Nord armour the Companion archer had been wearing, it was the best work he had seen full-stop.

“That’s a beautiful sword, ma’am. The Jarl would be a fool to not be grateful for this gift.”

The Imperial smith laughed. “Careful, young man, my husband may think you are trying to woo me with those honeyed words.”

Leto stiffened as though he’d been struck with lightning and his face reddened. “I, uh, I…”

Adrianne waved his embarrassment away. “Relax, young man. I only jest. Now, you’d best get moving if you’re going to see the Jarl. Best not to keep him waiting if you’re delivering a message.”

Leto nodded, breathing to try and shake off his mortification. “I honestly don’t know how long this will take, but once I’m done I’ll come back.”

Adrianne nodded. She watched him jog away, clearly amused by the strange young Nord. He’d barely made it a few yards when he skidded to a halt and turned back to her.

“Um, how do I –?”

“Head up to the merchant’s circle, take the stairs on the left, then go straight between the Gildergreen – that’s the big tree – and the statue of Talos. You’ll see stairs leading up to Dragonsreach.”

Leto felt his face grow hot with embarrassment again. “Thank you.”

“What’s your name, by the way?” Adrianne asked.

His eyes widened and he swore that if his cheeks got any warmer he’d be able to use his own skin in place of a forge. The woman had offered him work and he hadn’t even told her his name. Shor’s balls he was a fool.

“Uh, Leto, ma’am.”

Adrianne nodded and waved him off, chuckling to herself. Leto jogged away again, slowing as he reached the merchant’s circle. The blacksmith’s directions were easy enough to follow, and even if they weren’t it would have been easy to find the statue of Talos at least. Even in the midst of the market rabble and the merchants calling out their wares, he could hear the shrill warbling of a priest, praising Talos and condemning the Empire, coming from up the stairs to the left.

When he actually caught sight of the massive statue, complete with shrine and loud priest, Leto found himself simply gawking at the spectacle. From what he’d heard about things in his village, he thought that worshipping Talos was punishable by death... and that was if the Thalmor didn’t get you first. His own family had been so careful in hiding their little shrine even though the closest things they had to guards were veteran soldiers from the Great War who either worshipped him themselves or were too drunk to care. But he’d have thought that a large city, especially a Hold capital, would have torn down their Talos statues and that this priest with impressive vocal cords would have been executed a long time ago.

Realising he was still staring, and that both the priest and the Nord in Imperial armour who had been speaking to Adrianne when he’d first entered Whiterun were paying attention to him, he moved on.

It wasn’t difficult to find the stairs up to Dragonsreach that Adrianne had mentioned. They were worn from traffic almost to the point of being completely smooth, gleaming in the sun. At the base of them was a large pool of water that Leto guessed also ran into the sewer systems he’d seen. Or maybe it fed the well in the merchant’s circle. He stepped up to the foot of them, looking up toward the Jarl’s palace and suddenly feeling like he had so much further to go before reaching his destination.

Shor’s balls and Stendarr’s mercy! He’d heard that Dragonsreach was a massive structure that looked out over the city, but he hadn’t expected it to be at the top of more stairs than he’d ever seen in his life! _Cloud District_ , Leto reminded himself dryly. _Guess that explains the name._ Any higher up and the Jarl would be able to kiss the gods. He should have known when he’d caught sight of the city from the road from Riverwood that it wouldn’t be a gentle incline up to the massive wooden and stone structure.

Puffing out a breath, he adjusted the strap of the blacksmith’s gift over his shoulder and started climbing the steps. He made his way past a few guards making their way down and absently wondered how they managed to do it every single day. He supposed they would get used it. But they would likely be fitter than any courier for doing so.

By the time he made it to the wooden boardwalk that led to Dragonreach’s front doors, he was sweating and gasping for breath. He rested his hands on his knees for a moment, aware that the guards stationed around him were watching him with suspicion and more than a little amusement. He could almost read their minds: he won’t be much challenge if he attacks; He can barely even make it up a flight of stairs.

After he straightened up he moved toward the massive double doors – bigger than any he’d seen in his entire life. He would bet what little coin he had that the giant from the farm outside would have been able to pass through them without needing to duck. He glanced at one of the guards who was standing off to one side, arms crossed and watching him closely.

“Excuse me, ma’am, I have a message to deliver to the Jarl from Riverwood. It’s about what happened in Helgen.”

Even though the full-faced helm gave nothing of her expression away, he swore she was looking him up and down through the eye-slits; sizing him up, assessing his potential as a threat to her Jarl. Leto instinctively tried to look as innocent as possible, even though he had nothing to hide.

“Fine. You may enter. But watch yourself! Cause trouble and I’ll haul you into the dungeon myself.”

The young Nord couldn’t help but gulp. The only experience he’d ever had with prisons was the torture chamber he’d seen inside Helgen’s keep. And he had no intention of visiting Whiterun’s prison to compare the two. “Yes, ma’am.”

As she and her partner dragged open one of the heavy doors, Leto ran a hand across his jaw. Damn, he probably should have shaved yesterday when he’d bathed. His stubble had grown enough that he looked like an outlaw. Hardly a good look for someone coming to see the Jarl. But there was nothing he could do about it now. Who knew, maybe it would help the Jarl believe his story. Even though it seemed word had spread already, rumours were one thing… having a man turn up who looked like he’d been dragged through Oblivion behind demonic horses and tell you a first-hand account was something else entirely. He just hoped that the Jarl believed him and didn’t try to lock him up for being touched by Sheogorath.

Once he had stepped through the door, Leto found his jaw dropping. His wide eyes looked around him in wonder and he was rooted to the spot. Very few times in his life had he ever felt small. Even as a child he’d been built solidly and towered over most everyone else is own age, even though in the village they were all Nords as well. But standing in that grand hall, the arched beams soaring high above his head, he felt like an ant.

He managed to force his leaden legs to move and even as he made his way up the steps toward the hall proper he was still looking around in amazement. When he’d drawn close enough to the fire pit in the centre of room to feel its heat, the sharp sounds of an argument snapped him out of his daze. His wandering eyes moved to focus on the Jarl’s throne where the huge Nord dressed in royal finery he assumed to be Balgruuf the Greater was arguing with a balding, dark skinned Imperial man whose resemblance to Adrianne meant he could only be Proventus. Of course he’d turned up in the middle of an argument. With the way his luck had been running, how could he have turned up at any other time?

His attention was quickly stolen away by the figure of a short but lithely muscled Dunmer stalking toward him, crimson eyes blazing with suspicion and sword drawn.

Leto found himself gulping as she stopped a few feet away from him, out of his reach but close enough that she could spring forward faster than a blink with her coiled muscles and bury her steel sword into his throat. “What is the meaning of this interruption? Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors.”

The Nord held his hands out to his sides, making it clear he meant no threat and had no desire to reach for either the sword at his hip or the one hanging from its strap over his shoulder. “I have news from Helgen, ma’am. About the dragon attack.”

Her sharp eyes looked him up and down and her stance relaxed minutely. “Well, that explains why the guards let you in. Come on then, the Jarl will want to speak with you personally.”

She sheathed her sword and led the short distance toward the throne where Balgruuf was now watching the pair with a brow furrowed in question. When Leto was standing at the foot of the pair of steps that led to the throne, he bowed his head in respect.

Balgruuf shifted in his seat, fingers combing through his blonde beard as he studied the young Nord standing before him. “So… You were at Helgen? You saw this dragon with your own eyes?”

Leto didn’t miss the underlying doubt in his tone, barely hidden beneath curiosity and the desire to get answers to the rumours he’d no doubt been flooded with over the past few days.

 _Aye, I had a great view of it when the Imperials were about to cut off my head_ , he thought darkly. But he decided on a slightly more diplomatic response, one that hopefully wouldn’t wind up with him being hauled off to gaol. “Aye, Jarl. The dragon destroyed Helgen, then flew away over the mountains. Its direction would have taken it deeper into your Hold.”

The hand that had been stroking his chin dropped into his lap. “By Ysmir, Irileth was right!” He glanced to his steward and his expression darkened. “What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a _dragon_?”

Leto tried to hide his groan. Great, he’d restarted the argument.

Before things could escalate, the Dunmer – Irileth – stepped forward. “My lord, we should send troops to Riverwood at once. It is in the most immediate danger, if that dragon is lurking around the mountains…”

Proventus cut her off. “The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation!” he exclaimed. “He’ll assume we’re preparing to join Ulfric’s side and attack him.”

Irileth opened her mouth to throw something back, teeth bared in a sneer, but the loud thump of the Jarl slamming his fists down on the arms of his throne silenced both steward and, Leto assumed, housecarl.

“Enough!” He waited for the echo of his shout to stop bouncing off the walls and fixed the two on either side of him with a glare, making both glance away sheepishly. “I’ll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!” He took a deep breath to calm his anger and looked to the Dunmer. “Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once.”

Her fist curled and thumped over her heart in a salute as she nodded her head. “Yes, my Jarl.”

Balgruuf missed the little smirk she gave Proventus before turning to leave the palace, but Leto didn’t. The Imperial shifted and seemed to be trying to regain his dignity and clasped his hands in front of him. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to my duties.”

Leto saw the Jarl’s face twist in an expression of distaste at his steward’s meek words. Slowly, he rolled his head to fire a sardonic glower at the man. “That would be best.”

The Imperial gave a quick bob of his head before rushing away. Leto tried valiantly to hide his amusement but wasn’t sure how much success he had. His eyes flickered to one of the guards around the hall who gave him a small nod. So they were amused too, but were lucky enough to have their faces covered by their helms. It made the young Nord wonder how often arguments broke out among the trio. An Imperial, a Dunmer and a Nord trying to run a city… it almost sounded like the beginning to a bad joke. But no matter how strange it seemed, it obviously worked because Whiterun was safe and if the combination had have been detrimental to the Hold, the Jarl likely wouldn’t have either standing by his side, offering advice.

He was broken from his thoughts when he realised the Jarl was looking at him. “Well done. You sought me out, on your own initiative. You’ve done Whiterun a service, and I won’t soon forget it.”

Leto inclined his head again. “Thank you, Jarl. But it was Gerdur of Riverwood who asked me to come to you.”

Balgruuf waved the modesty away. “Nevertheless you have likely saved a great many of my people. And for that I would like to reward you.”

The Jarl rose from his throne and told Leto to follow him. As awkward as he was feeling about receiving a reward for simply delivering a message, he certainly wasn’t going to turn it down. He needed the money. And he had half expected he would receive one anyway… the assumption just felt impolite now that it was happening.

The young Nord couldn’t help his eyes wandering again as he was led toward and up a flight of wooden stairs off to the side of the court area. The aged structure was ornate and like nothing Leto could have ever imagined without seeing it with his own eyes.

His attention was brought back to his host when the Jarl glanced back, a curious furrow to his brow. “Where are you from, kinsman? What brought you to Helgen?”

The urge to gulp and look away was almost overwhelming as he caught the tone of suspicion in the older Nord’s voice. Clearly every detail of what had happened at the garrison-town had reached the Jarl’s ears. He was granted a small mercy when Balgruuf faced forward again to watch his footing after speaking.

“My village was in the Jerall Mountains between Skyrim and Cyrodiil, Jarl. Neither land seemed to claim us, but we thought ourselves part of Skyrim. We were attacked by bandits some days ago and…” he hesitated. He didn’t want to talk about this again with a stranger, Jarl or no. But he couldn’t exactly lie. For one, he was terrible at it. “… I was the only survivor. The bandits burned my home to the ground and left. I wound up in Helgen when I went for help and was caught between the Stormcloaks and Imperials in an ambush.”

Balgruuf paused and glanced back. Leto saw deep sympathy in the man’s eyes, the wrinkles that he had a feeling were appearing prematurely crinkling. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Jarl.” Leto bowed his head in respect and gratitude.

When he glanced up again, the man was continuing up the stairs, a thoughtful look on his face.

They made it to the next floor and Balgruuf stroked his beard slowly. “So the rumours are true then? The Imperials captured Ulfric Stormcloak?”

“Aye, Jarl,” Leto murmured. So this is what the man really wanted to know; the fate of the leader of the rebellion. “I didn’t see him escape with my own eyes, but I believe he did. When I last saw him he’d regrouped with his men and had managed to get free of his bindings and find weapons.”

Balgruuf barked a humourless laugh and shook his head. “I’ve no doubt he escaped. Word has reached me that he is already back in Windhelm, using the dragon attack and his attempted execution to rally more to his side.”

Leto simply nodded. He didn’t have a reply to that, he was just grateful that Balgruuf wasn’t assuming he was a rebel and clapping him in irons. Though he did have to wonder where all these rumours were coming from. It had only been a few days since the dragon had attacked, but he was starting to feel like half the land already knew. Most of those that had been witness to the event were little more than charred piles of bone and melted steel… so how was word spreading?

The Jarl led him to a table dominated by a large map of Skyrim, dotted with little red and blue flags. Leto was a little surprised that there was no high-ranked soldier standing over it before he remembered what Gerdur had told him about the Jarl trying to remain neutral. It seemed that he was keeping an eye on the progress of the civil war without being involved. He was smart. Leto had to admire that; from what he’d been told from the miller, her Jarl wanted nothing to do with it, and Leto had assumed from her words he was also ignoring the whole war.

While the Jarl hauled out a chest from beneath the table and started sifting through it, Leto looked over the map, trying to memories where each flag sat and what colour it was. It was an utterly useless attempt at trying to make sure he didn’t blunder into another situation like the one that had wound him up nearly headless, especially since he was fairly sure he was looking at the map upside-down anyway. And this one was much more detailed than the one he had stuffed in his pack. If he couldn’t make heads or tails of that one, what chance did he have with the one on the table?

Balgruuf seemed to notice where his eyes were drawn to and paused his searching in the chest. “It feels like every day I need to change those flags around. And normally by the time I have the information that a fort has been claimed by one side or the other, I need to put the damn things back because the fort has been reclaimed. It’s only the Hold capitals that don’t change.”

Leto stepped back from the table, feeling his face heat up. He was a guest in Dragonsreach and had no business poking around the Jarl’s war room. “Sorry, Jarl, I shouldn’t have pried. It’s just, where I’m from, we didn’t hear much about the war aside from rumours and the tales of adventurers.”

Balgruuf chuckled, a smile moving his beard that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re lucky then.”

“May I ask…” Leto hesitated, then decided to just plunge right in. “I’ve heard that you remain neutral in the civil war. Is that true?”

“I am on the side of Whiterun. I always have been. The day might come when I am forced to draw my sword for one side or the other. But that day has not come yet. For now, I simply watch and wait and protect my people as best I can from the brewing storm.”

Leto could only nod. What Gerdur had seen as a man preparing to possibly make the ‘wrong’ choice, he admired. The Jarl was clearly keeping tabs on everything going on around him but was caring more about protecting his people and preparing for what he knew was inevitable. He was making sure that when a choice as forced on him, he would make the best one for all of Whiterun, not just himself.

Finally the Jarl rose back to his feet, shoving the chest back under the desk with the full weight of his legs. Leto vaguely wondered what could be in it to make it so heavy, but his musings were ended when Balgruuf handed something to him.

“Here, take this as a small token of my esteem for what you have done for my Hold.”

Leto took the bundle from the Jarl and examined it. It was a set of studded Imperial armour, like what the lower ranked soldiers had worn at Helgen. There was no way it would possibly fit him. Even if he weren’t built larger than the average Nord, the armour would have been too small. It looked like it was crafted for an Imperial or Breton, someone with a much leaner frame than any Nord.

But it was a gift from a Jarl, something to be appreciated no matter how impractical. “Thank you, Jarl.”

Balgruuf just gave him a smile that said he knew what Leto was thinking. The younger Nord got the distinct impression that the Imperial armour had been an unwanted gift to him at some point, hoping to sway him into siding with the Empire. And suddenly Leto realised what else must be in the chest: more Imperial weapons and armour, probably intended for his guards or people in the hopes they’d join the Legion if given sturdy equipment. He also got the idea that Balgruuf was more than happy to have found an excuse to get rid of at least one article of unwanted gear. Being neutral in the war and having every intention of holding onto that state would have meant that whatever was in that chest would have been sitting there, gathering dust, for who-knew how long and likely to become victims of hungry moths soon.

At least he could help Adrianne with that order for Imperial weapons and armour, Leto thought. He was certain that the Jarl wouldn’t mind him selling it, as they both knew it was useless to him.

He tucked it away in his knapsack and followed as Balgruuf started leading him back down the stairs.

“Are you staying in Whiterun?”

“Aye, Jarl. I’ve managed to find some work for the time being with the blacksmith.” It was true enough. The Jarl didn’t need to know that he was actually just being tested and that there was a chance he’d fail miserably.

“Will you be staying at the inn?”

When Leto confirmed, the Jarl told him to speak with his steward before leaving; Balgruuf would pay for a night and a meal as further thanks for delivering the message and he could keep a hold of whatever coin he had on him for the day to help him rebuild his life. The gesture surprised the young Nord. In his home village everyone had helped everyone else when things got tough, but he’d been told by others that had been to the cities that it wasn’t like that there. When times got hard you were on your own to try and claw your way through and survive. So for a Jarl to be offering to pay for his food and board for a night… he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the generosity.

“I… uh… thank you, Jarl.”

Balgruuf placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You are welcome. And I pray the gods watch over you.”

Leto stared at him, dumbstruck, for a moment before managing to collect himself. “I should take my leave.” He caught a glimpse of something on the man’s face; like he was considering something. And he still hadn’t removed his giant paw from Leto’s shoulder. “Unless there is something else you need, Jarl?”

When the corner of his mouth quirked up briefly, he realised that he’d guessed right. Balgruuf’s eyes flickered toward an opening off to the side of the dining area, then passed over the younger Nord’s new steel armour.

“There is another thing you could do for me. Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps.”

Leto had to wonder what ‘particular talents’ he was meaning. He had delivered a message and managed, by some stroke of luck, to run away from a dragon and not be eaten.

“Come, let’s go find Farengar, my court wizard.” With the hand still on Leto’s shoulder, he guided them toward the opening. “He’s been looking into a matter related to these dragons and… rumours of dragons.”

The smell of magic that hit him when they entered what turned out to be the court wizard’s study area was almost enough to make Leto sneeze. Like any Nord, he had a healthy fear and dislike of the arcane arts. He’d never really seen much magic, but the odd times when he had witnessed it from travellers wanting to show off had always left him with an itching up his nose like he’d sniffed dust. All those fireballs and lines of lightning seemed to leave a smell behind that clung to the air. And the mages that had passed through his village had always reeked of something singed and stormy.

Apparently Balgruuf was immune to the aura that stagnated in the study. Either that or he’d just grown used to it because he didn’t even bat an eyelid as he walked over to the hooded mage leaning over some table-like structure with glowing runes on its surface and candles lining the back board. Leto had no idea what it was, but it seemed to be something that the Jarl didn’t want to startle the mage while using. He cautiously tapped the robed shoulder and waited for him to look up.

“Farengar, I think I’ve found someone who can help you with your dragon project. Go ahead and fill him in with all the details.”

When the mage glanced over his shoulder and looked Leto up and down, the young Nord couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably, his armour clanking lightly and only drawing attention to his discomfort. As Balgruuf moved back away from whatever device the mage had been using and Farengar himself stepped closer to him, still surveying him with no small degree of unimpressed scrutiny, Leto wondered if maybe he was about to be dropped into something that was far over his head. He wasn’t liking the sound of this ‘project’ at all and he hadn’t been told anything about it other than its title.

“So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?”

Even though Leto couldn’t see much of the man’s face for the shadows his hood created, he could still hear the sneering doubt in his tone. It immediately made him dislike the man. Not only was he a mage that was doing gods-only-knew-what on that strange device that he could now see a horned skull decorating, but he was a _Nord_ mage. He was internally chastising himself for his prejudices – he hadn’t actually been given any first-hand reason not to trust magic, after all – but at the same time he remembered the mage-torturers from the keep at Helgen and the displays he’d seen from his childhood that normally wound up with a tree being split down the middle and smoking. And the man’s arrogant tone seemed to be saying what his pa had always told him mages thought: I am more powerful than you and you are beneath me because you can’t cast a spell.

Oblivious or uncaring of the look on Leto’s face, the mage continued. “Oh yes, he must be referring to my research into dragons.”

 _That is what the Jarl just said_ , Leto thought but was wise enough not to say aloud.

It seemed the wizard’s appraisal of the young Nord was finished, and while he didn’t seem impressed with what he saw, he must have decided it would do. “Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me.” Leto barely managed not to choke at the way he said it, as though he were some kind of hound. It would be rude and likely deadly for him to punch the Jarl’s court wizard after he had shown such generosity. “Well, when I say ‘fetch’ I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there.”

Leto balked at him, then glanced over at the Jarl who had buried his face into a hand in something like despair. He hadn’t liked the sound of helping with Farengar’s project before, but now he really started to feel apprehensive. What had he gotten himself into now?

He turned back to the wizard who was looking at him expectantly. “What does this have to do with dragons?”

While he was sure that the only places that would have any information on dragons would be inside an ancient ruin – since it would seem that the stories of dragons in old times were true – he wasn’t sure he understood what a slab of rock could tell anyone. A scroll or book maybe, but not a stone tablet.

Farangar smiled a little, looking mildly impressed as he tilted his head back far enough that Leto could actually make out more of his face. “Ah, no mere brute mercenary, but a thinker – perhaps even a scholar?”

This time Leto actually did choke. Him, a scholar? If he hadn’t just been insulted by being called a brute he would have laughed. Shor’s balls, if his family could have heard him be called a ‘thinker’ they would have fallen over laughing.

When the wizard’s eyebrow arched at the young man’s obvious amusement, Leto cleared his throat. “Um, no sir, I’m no scholar. I was just wondering why you wanted a stone tablet rather than a book or something.”

Again the wizard looked pleasantly surprised. “No relevant tome would have survived the ages. And this isn’t just an ordinary tablet. You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasies, rumours. Impossibilities. One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible.” Farengar crossed his arms over his chest and Leto thought he could see it puffing out a little with pride or arrogance. “But I began to search for information about dragons – where had they gone all those years ago? And where were they coming from?”

Leto frowned. Something sounded… wrong, for lack of a better word, with what the wizard had just said. When he finally realised what it was, his eyes widened. “Wait, you said ‘they’. ‘Where were _they_ coming from’… and rumours, as in: more than one. The dragon at Helgen only appeared a few days ago. I know word travels fast but…” He saw something like amazement in the mage’s eyes. “… You’re speaking as though this has been going on for a long time.”

A chuckle bubbled from Farengar’s throat and he looked at Balgruuf. “I believe you have actually found someone with a brain in his head, my Jarl. I’m impressed.” Leto didn’t have time to even think about how he wanted to react to the backhanded compliment before the wizard was addressing him again. “You appear to be very astute, which is most impressive, but I have no desire to become a part of the rumour mill by spreading more unfounded revelations. Suffice to say that this tablet will assist in determining the exact time that the dragon or dragons reappeared.”

“ _If_ the tablet is where you think it is.”

Farengar gave a humourless chuckle. “Yes… if it’s there.”

Leto gave a sigh. While he would like to be able to walk away from what could be a dangerous and pointless job, one didn’t turn down work from a Jarl. “So what do you need me to do?”

“I, ah, learned of this certain stone tablet, said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow – a ‘Dragonstone’. It is said to contain a map of dragon burial sites.”

Leto wasn’t sure which he was more worried about; that Farengar had hesitated before saying how he knew of the tablet or the fact that he’d said it was in Bleak Falls Barrow, the place that Leto had been wondering if he could get out of going to. Well, there seemed to be no way of avoiding the ruins now.

“Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet – no doubt interred in the main chamber – and bring it to me. Simplicity itself.”

At the wizard’s smile, Leto found himself scowling. “I thought you said it was dangerous.”

Farengar scratched at his shoulder awkwardly. “Well, yes, uh… I’m certain that I was probably exaggerating.”

Somehow, Leto doubted that. He crossed his arms over his chest and his scowl deepened. “So, if you think it’s so simple, why do you need someone else to do it? You’re a mage, you know what you’re looking for; wouldn’t you be better off going to retrieve it?”

Farengar stiffened and Leto heard Balgruuf try to muffle a chuckle. The mage stammered for a moment before he cleared his throat and collected himself.

“My work keeps me confined to the palace. And besides, there is no point in me risking my own neck on a job that a common thug is more than capable of.”

The urge to punch the mage returned but again he forced it down. He was beginning to get mental whiplash from the speed the man was going from insulting him to complimenting him and back again. “Anything you can tell me about the Barrow?” he managed to ask through slightly gritted teeth.

If he really was going to have to go into the ruins on the mountainside, he wanted more than Ralof’s superstitions – that he happened to share – and Camilla’s suspicions about what would be inside other than the thieves that stole her brother’s golden ornament.

Farengar thought for a moment. “An old tomb, build by the ancient Nords, perhaps dating back to the Dragon War itself. Ah. Maybe you just want to know how to get there.”

“No, sir, I already know how to get there.” Great; a tomb. That meant dead bodies and every nightmare of the walking dead from his childhood coming back to haunt him as he walked between their crypts.

Farengar’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly before he spoke. “Oh, well. That’s good then.” He turned to go back to his strange magic table with the glowing runes, then paused when he realised that both Balgruuf and Leto were still standing there. “Is there something else you need?”

“How do you know that this ‘Dragonstone’ is in Bleak Falls Barrow?”

“Well. Must preserve some professional secrets, mustn’t we? I have my sources… reliable sources.”

“How reliable? You said before that it might not be there.”

The wizard waved the comment away. “It is only a very slim chance. As far as we’ve been able to tell, the inner sanctum of the tomb has never been disturbed.”

Leto was liking this Nord wizard less and less, but the way he saw it, he had no choice but to accept the job. After a moment of thinking, he couldn’t come up with any other questions that might be relevant to delving into a bandit-ridden ancient tomb. He could think of a million other things he wanted to ask the mage – such as anything he knew on the dragon wars, all about the history of the land that he seemed to know so intimately – but he decided that they’d be better left until he’d found the Dragonstone and hopefully improved the man’s disposition toward him. Maybe if he got what the wizard wanted he’d be able to talk to the man as a fellow kinsman, not as a hired ‘thug’ to a superior mage.

Before he could speak again, Farengar seemed to realise he was still standing there and waved his hand dismissively. “Off to Bleak Falls Barrow with you. The Jarl is not a patient man. Neither am I, some to think of it.”

Leto bit back the comment of ‘I’ve noticed’ and said instead, “alright, I’ll leave in the morning.”

He hadn’t forgotten that he’d told Adrianne that he’d return to help her at the forge once he was done at Dragonsreach, and while it was likely too late to make it to the tomb before nightfall it was still early enough that he’d be able to show the blacksmith his capabilities.

As the wizard turned back to his magical apparatus, Balgruuf cleared his throat to draw his attention. “This is a priority now. Anything we can use to fight this dragon, or dragons. We need it, quickly. Before it’s too late.”

The wizard nodded and Leto was mildly surprised to see no trace of sarcasm or insult when he addressed the Jarl. “Of course, Jarl Balgruuf. I am currently working on magical defences, but I won’t be able to come up with anything conclusive until I have that tablet. But you seem to have found me an able assistant.”

Leto found himself blinking. He’d gone from thug to assistant in a matter of seconds… so the wizard was back to compliments. He only hoped that was a good sign.

When Farengar shot him a small smile and looked him up and down, he didn’t get the same disapproving feeling he had at first. “I’m sure he will prove most useful.”

The young Nord glanced away. He couldn’t help the thought bubbling up that at least if he didn’t prove useful, he likely wouldn’t be alive to deal with the shame of failure. That was a cheerful thought.

Balgruuf turned to him and the expression on his face said that he was able to sense Leto’s doubt. “Succeed at this,” he said, “and you’ll be rewarded. Whiterun will be in your debt.”

“I will do my best, Jarl,” Leto promised. He just hoped his best was enough.

The Jarl smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “That is all I can ask. Now, go and see Proventus about some gold for the inn. He’s probably out on the Great Porch.”

After nodding and getting directions, Leto made his way back up the stairs to the war room. He pushed his way through the massive double doors that led outside and searched the expansive paved area for the steward. It didn’t take long to spot him. He seemed to be having an argument with a man in scaled armour at the far end where a long table was set out with food and drink.

He made his way over, conscious of the fact that he didn’t belong here and that there were guards eyeing him suspiciously. When he was a polite enough distance away, he called out for the steward.

Proventus seemed to be grateful for the opportunity to walk away from the Nord, who Leto was now suspecting was having a joke at the Imperial’s expense, rather than arguing.

“Ah, I remember you. You were the one who delivered the message about the dragon. Is there something I can do for you?” Leto noted the clipped tone and remembered that it was because of his message that the steward had been embarrassed and run away to the porch.

“Actually, sir, I have a sword for you, from your daughter.”

Provetus blinked. “From Adrianne?”

“Uh… yes, sir.” Leto wondered if he might have another daughter who was a blacksmith, but decided that he would probably be mistaken for being rude if he asked.

He slowly slid the sheath strap from his shoulder and held the greatsword out flat for the steward to take, aware that if the guards thought he was trying to draw a sword on the man he’d likely be skewered with arrows faster than he could blink.

“Ah, this must be that weapon for the Jarl.” The steward slid the blade a little ways out of its housing to examine the craftsmanship. “Poor girl, so eager to prove herself.” He slid the blade back and placed the strap over his own shoulder. “I’ll present it to Balgruuf when his mood is… agreeable.”

Despite himself, Leto grinned. He got the distinct impression that the Jarl’s mood had been anything but recently, especially where his steward was involved. Balgruuf struck him as a passionate man that didn’t like being told to be cautious and to just watch how things played out.

As thanks for the delivery, Proventus handed him twenty gold and Leto took his leave. He didn’t mention about Balgruuf’s offer of putting him up for a night in the inn and paying for his meal. It just felt… rude. How was one supposed to go about asking for money from a steward without sounding like a beggar or an arrogant prat?

As he was heading back out of the palace, he glanced back to give the Jarl – sitting once more on his throne and his brow furrowed with thought – a polite nod and paused when something else caught his eye.

Attached to the stone wall above the Jarl’s head like a hunter’s trophy was a massive skull, its jaws open in a silent roar that, even without flesh on the bone, made Leto shudder with recognition. He may have only seen one, and his mother’s stories about dragons may not have come with pictures, but he recognised the skull as belonging to a dragon. At first he wondered how he could have missed the thing before, then he wondered how anyone in Skyrim could have thought the dragons were a myth with the proof literally hanging over the head of one of the land’s Jarls.

He couldn’t help but gulp as he stared into those empty eye-sockets and saw the torchlight glint off the polished bone of the dead beast’s teeth.

Balgruuf followed his gaze and chuckled. “Really something, isn’t it? My ancestor, Olaf One-Eye, trapped the dragon in this very palace. It’s how it got its name.” He turned back to Leto, a spark of curiosity in his eye. “Tell me, the dragon at Helgen, was it as big as this one?”

Images of the black beast’s gaping maw spewing fire and raining down flaming stones on the helpless people of the town rose up in his mind. He took a deep breath to try and collect himself and ignore how he _swore_ he could smell the smoke and burning flesh, even though that horror was well behind him now.

Finally he found his voice and gave the Jarl a miserable look. “Bigger, Jarl. Much bigger.”

Balgruuf’s blue eyes widened to the point that the crows-feet at their edges almost vanished. “By the gods…”

Leto left Dragonsreach as the Jarl excused himself, saying something about checking defences. He made his way back through the streets toward the blacksmiths, feeling relief washing over him that his coin pouch felt heavier and knowing that once he got rid of the Imperial armour in his pack it would be heavier still. Or maybe he’d see if he could trade it for gauntlets. The steel armour he’d gotten from Riverwood hadn’t come with any and he knew that every little bit of defence would count… especially with where he was headed to in the morning.

It turned out he’d been in Dragonsreach a little longer than he’d thought, either that or his trip from Riverwood and fighting the giant had taken longer, because it was nearing five in the evening. But when he greeted Adrianne she was still more than willing to test his skills. She was grateful for his delivery and when he showed her the studded armour he’d been given she was more than happy to take it off his hands and trade him steel gauntlets for it. With a chuckle she said that it meant she could cross one item off her list of a hundred. So Leto decided to push his luck and see if she wanted the Legion issue sword as well. It turned out she did. He sharpened it on the grinding wheel and swapped it for an ordinary steel sword, glad that he wouldn’t be wandering around a war-torn land with a blade stolen from a dead Legionnaire.

The rest of the evening was passed with Adrianne giving him tasks to see his capabilities. She had him forge a dagger, getting him to prepare the leather for the hilt as well. She obviously wanted to make sure he was able to do that much before giving him more valuable materials to work with.

When he approached the forge, he paused to give it a glare before he started working. His pa had always joked with him about how if he were any more clumsy he’d be a troll. He’d been training as a blacksmith since his father had deemed him old enough to work the bellows and in his studies he’d had no small number of accidents. There used to be a bucket of water sitting by the forge that his father had placed there after the first time Leto had had a disaster. While he had been heating an iron ingot, his sleeve had caught in the flames and he’d gone up like an oil soaked rag on a torch.

That was the day he’d learned why his father always kept his sleeves rolled up, even if it meant he’d get burned by sparks.

That wasn’t to say he was useless. He may not have been the greatest apprentice, but he knew the craft. Accidents happened when people were using molten metals, any smith would tell you that… it’s just that Leto felt he had more than his fair share, and his father had vehemently agreed.

“Alright, you play nice with me, I’ll play nice too. Got it? No burning me, no trying to go out, no funny business. I need to look good here.”

He got the itchy feeling on the back of his neck as though someone was watching him and glanced to the side to see Adrianne watching him, one corner of her mouth curled into an amused smile. The young Nord felt his face burning as hot as the coals he had been glaring at. Great, he’d been caught having a conversation with an inanimate object. She probably thought he was as mad as a mudcrab. That was a great impression to give a potential employer.

Mercifully, no disasters happened. It was late in the evening by the time he’d finished the dagger, but Adrianne hadn’t told him to stop and she had worked on her own projects alongside him, glancing over to check his progress every now and then.

They’d talked as they worked, casual conversation that dragged Leto out of the dark places his mind tried to take him as realisation dawned on him once more that he’d never again have his father clouting him up the back of his head for some mistake or colourful curse when he’d burned himself. That he’d never again work the forge beside his father… or have his mother gently chastising him while she applied salves to his burned skin. Aniya, his little sister, would never tease him for his clumsiness…

He told Adrianne that the Jarl and his court wizard had given him a job that meant he’d likely be gone from the city for a few days and was surprised when she was fine with it. Apparently everyone understood that one simply didn’t turn down a job from Balgruuf. But Leto was worried about her easy acceptance for a while, thinking that maybe she thought he was hopeless and would be glad to be rid of him, until he presented her with the finished dagger.

She turned it over in her hands, testing the sharpened edge with a calloused thumb, testing the balance, inspecting the strength of the iron and making sure he hadn’t made a serious blunder in working it.

Finally she nodded approvingly and Leto let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “Not too shabby. Apprentice level work, but solid. If you’re still interested in helping around the forge, come back and see me once you’ve finished the job for the Jarl. You’ve been well trained and I can certainly use the help.”

Leto grinned. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll definitely take you up on that offer.”

She chuckled at his enthusiasm and glanced out from under the awning to check how late the hour was. “Alright, I’ll see you when you get back. Now off with you. It’s late and you look like you need rest.”

They bid each other a good night and Leto moved toward the inn at the top of the merchant’s circle. He still couldn’t believe his luck that finding work had been that easy. And he was thanking all the gods that he hadn’t messed up his test.

His enthusiasm quickly gave way to hunger and exhaustion when he entered the warm inn and breathed in the smell of food and mead that hung heavily in the air. He paid for a room and devoured the meal that was set down in front of him almost before the Redguard waitress had let go of the plate. The food gave him a small burst of energy and he sat around downstairs in the common area, listening to the bard and drinking. He overheard the Nordic innkeeper, Hulda, saying something about getting another load of firewood as he was buying another bottle of mead and his coin pouch reminded him of the fact that food and board was making it light again. His offer to go and chop more for her was eagerly and gratefully accepted and he was paid more than he expected for the logs he stacked neatly beside the fire pit.

When he finally collapsed into the most comfortable bed he had ever felt, his mind drifted away on thoughts that maybe starting a new life wasn’t going to be as hard as he’d thought. If only he could numb the ache in his heart that he was trying to ignore… and if only he could survive what awaited him at Bleak Falls Barrow.

His last thought before sleep claimed him was that he could take some comfort in the fact that if he did fail, if he was killed by the thieves or whatever else lurked in the ancient tomb, he would at least be reunited with his family. That idea brought a small smile to his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, i apologise for a boringly named chapter. But this is where the pace should start to pick up for Leto's adventures.
> 
> I hope you're enjoying. Thank you for reading :) Feel free to leave feedback. I can't improve if i don't know where i went wrong.


	9. Bleak Falls Barrow

It was mid-morning the next day when Leto found himself at the foot of the dirt path that would lead him to Bleak Falls Barrow. In attempt to procrastinate, he’d chopped more wood for Hulda at the Bannered Mare after eating a slow breakfast. The coin she’d paid him then and the night before had bought him some more food for the journey and a basic longbow with a quiver of steal arrows from Adrianne before he’d left Whiterun. He tried to ignore the nagging knowledge that he was about as good with a bow as he was with a sword and he took a deep breath and started up the narrow path.

The weather had turned halfway to Riverwood and his feet were crunching through a fresh blanket of snow. He could barely even see the village through the swirling sleet and it was only across the river. As the wind picked up he was fighting a constant battle with trying to keep his hair out of his face. He somewhat wished he’d had enough coin to buy a helmet.

Making his way up the dirt path was slow going. The snow was getting in his eyes and it was so thick on the ground he had to be careful where he put his feet or he would fall or roll an ankle. Not to mention with thieves around he was worried about being caught off-guard and finding an arrow in his throat.

Around half-way up the mountain, he could see a tower coming into view through the snow, a dark shape seemingly clawing its way out of the background. It looked abandoned but he squinted through the weather and watched for the slightest hint of movement anyway. Just because a place looked abandoned, didn’t mean it was. Even then he almost didn’t see the man leaning casually against the tree across the short, narrow stone bridge that led to the watchtower’s entrance.

He cursed and prayed that the thief hadn’t seen him as he threw himself into a crouch behind an icy boulder. The gods must have been listening because the Redguard didn’t react. The young Nord peeked out from his hiding place and drew his bow. He had to be careful; it was only sheer luck and the weather that were keeping him hidden rather than any form of skill.

A bolt of paralysing terror tore up his spine when he took in the figure, still slouched against the trunk of the snow-covered tree, looking bored. The hulking man was dressed in fur armour, white war-paint standing out starkly on his dark skin even with the distance and weather between them. He was no thief. A man of his size would have been as stealthy as an angry bear in a houseful of fine porcelain. And no thief would wear such obvious markings. Neither would one be standing out in the open without a single care that they might be ambushed.

The fear turned to rage and curled itself around Leto’s guts and it took every ounce of self-control not to draw his sword and charge the man, screaming at the top of his lungs. This Redguard was a bandit, no mistaking it. And that meant that the ‘thieves’ that had stolen Lucan’s golden claw and were holed up in the Barrow were likely the same. Or at the very least working with them.

Bandits had destroyed Leto’s home, taken everything from him and left him for dead. They had left him alone and helpless with nothing familiar in the world. He knew he’d never be able to track down the ones that had stolen his entire life from him, but these ones would do to give him some sense of vengeance and justice for what had been done to his village.

Leto knocked an arrow and took advantage of the man’s apparent short-sightedness to aim. He would be spotted sooner or later, and he’d rather have the bandit be riddled with arrows before that happened. It was almost impossible to ignore the rage that made his whole body tremble, but the tiny rational part of his mind that kept telling him that charging in, roaring like a wounded sabre-cat, would only earn him a fool’s death managed to win out. An icy calm swept over him as he lined up the bandit’s face and replaced it in his mind with what he could remember of the ones that had attacked him and gutted his father before his very eyes. Leto didn’t know how long that composure would last, but he was going to take advantage of it while it did… it was better than feeling the fear or anger or pain.

He loosed the arrow and watched it sail toward the Redguard’s head… and thunk into the half-frozen trunk above his dreadlocked hair.

The young Nord swore and ducked down again as the bandit lurched away from his leaning post and stared at the steel arrow that had missed him by inches.

“Is someone there?”

“No,” Leto muttered to himself, his bitter tone swallowed up by the swirling wind almost before it reached his own ears. “What would give you that idea? Just go back to being lazy and let me try again.”

“What’s going on?” He heard another voice and risked a glance at the tower.

Damnit! There were two more bandits stalking across the bridge, and one looked like an archer. An _actual_ archer, not like an idiot young Nord who couldn’t hit the broad side of a building if he were ten paces from it. Unaware of the internal berating Leto was giving himself, the bandits were casting their eyes around, weapons drawn.

“I was just standing there and that arrow flew at me.”

The archer must have examined it because he heard her laugh. “Steel arrow; must be a wanna-be hero. If they were any good, they’d be better equipped and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

 _Aye, rub it in_ , Leto thought dismally. He was sure that speech had been just for him, not the sniggering bandit that he had missed with the perfectly-acceptable steel arrow.

Through the blustering wind this high up the mountainside, he couldn’t hear their footsteps. He was forced to chance another look out from his hiding place to make sure they weren’t creeping up on him. He breathed a small sigh of relief when he saw the trio still grouped together at the base of the watchtower, struggling to make out anything against the snow. Leto nocked another arrow and took aim once more. They could mock him, but they were the fools still out in the open.

Or maybe they were just confident that he wouldn’t be able to hit any of them…

While he would have loved to take out the archer, he was more worried about the massive Redguard that he’d originally tried to hit. The archer would be battling against the wind to hit him, but her two companions wouldn’t have any such problems in close quarters combat. And since the Redguard was big enough that he made Leto feel underfed, he was most worried about him and the strength he could put behind a swing of the huge axe he now had clenched in both hands.

Letting out a slow, steady breath, the young Nord trained the tip of his arrow on the Redguard bandit’s torso. Thankfully he was standing relatively still, only his head moving as he swept his gaze around in search of the hidden and terrible archer.

A split second after Leto let the arrow fly, he heard a roar of pain. The weapon dropped from the bandit’s hands as he clutched the feathered shaft protruding from his leg, just under the knee. The other bandits glanced back to their wounded companion before resuming their search with a new determination. All the while, Leto grinned. He may have been aiming for the Redguard’s chest, but he’d consider any hit a victory.

“We know you’re there somewhere, hero,” the archer woman called. “If you come out now, we’ll just take your stuff and let you leave with your life.”

“Speak for yourself!” the wounded Redguard snarled.

Leto was about to shout out that he highly doubted they’d let him live, but then snapped his jaw shut when he realised that it was probably exactly what she had wanted him to do; call out and give away his position. Instead he gave his response in the form or another arrow that managed to miss even the damned tower it went so wild.

“There you are!”

The young Nord’s eyes widened and he glanced up in time to see the third bandit charging at him with a mace held high over his head. They must have seen him fire or figured out the direction the arrows were coming from.

He swore and tossed the bow aside, knowing that now he’d been spotted it would do him no good. As he leapt to his feet, he drew his sword and took comfort in the fact that he was at least wearing steel armour while his enemies only wore fur that barely covered enough for them to be considered publically decent.

That feeling of comfort came to an abrupt end as he failed to dodge the bandit’s first swing and an armour plate buckled under the force of the mace-head slamming into it. The blow winded him and while he gagged for air, the bandit struck another blow to his thigh. He managed to keep his leg from crumpling only through sheer force of will as another dent appeared in his armour. As he stumbled out of the way of the next swing he managed to slice upward with his sword. He caught the bandit’s upper arm, and while the cut was shallow, it was enough for the man to stagger back, hissing in pain.

His half-rotten teeth bared in a snarl as he examined the gash quickly. Over his shoulder, Leto could see the archer cursing and moving to try and get a clear shot, but he made sure to keep the mace-wielder between himself and her. The Redguard had yanked the arrow from his leg and was trying to stop the bleeding with a bandage. So for now at least, Leto only had one bandit to deal with; which was luck considering he was only just getting his breath back.

Said bandit fixed him with an angry glare. “You’ll be so much easier to rob when you’re dead!”

The words made something inside Leto snap. Suddenly the pain faded and the world around him sharpened with startling clarity. He straightened up to his full height and let out a roaring battle-cry that tore through the howling winds and rang out over the mountainside.

The bandit with the mace started stumbling backward, eyes wide in fear. The archer’s aim faltered as she fired her arrows wildly, knowing she couldn’t hit him but trying anyway, and her hands trembled in the wake of the angry Nord’s bellow. Even the Redguard had fallen back, pressing himself back to the tree he had originally been lounging against as though he was hoping the trunk would swallow him whole or he’d blend into the frozen bark.

This distraction was all Leto needed. He surged forward, teeth bared, and slashed his sword across the exposed gut of the mace-wielding bandit. His weapon slid from his limp fingers and he crumpled to the ground, groaning and wrapping his arms around his middle as the snow around him was stained with warm crimson.

Leto didn’t bother to finish him off; he was as good as dead and was no more threat. And by the time he was done with the archer and the Redguard, he would have bled out.

The rest of the fight was a blur. All the young Nord could see was his burning home and hear he laughter and taunts of the monsters responsible for it. The archer backed away across the short bridge until she was inside the tower and slammed the wooden door closed, ignoring the pleas for help from her comrade. Her wild arrows fired in her retreat had missed Leto and flew off into the distance to be swallowed by the swirling snow. The Redguard didn’t even get the chance to retrieve his dropped greataxe before he was cut down with a sword through the ribs and up into his heart and lungs. His body hadn’t even finished sliding to the ground before Leto was charging for the tower. He vaguely heard an arrow pinging off the icy stone of the bridge behind him as he slammed bodily into the door and flung it open.

As he followed the footprints in the snow up the stairs and wooden platforms to the top of the tower, he heard the bandit archer calling out that she surrendered. When they came face to face, she held her bow out in front of her, flat and arrowless. The wind and snow whipped at their hair and there were mere feet between them. She was backed up against the low stone wall.

“No more! I yield!” Leto paused, his sword wavering. “ _I yield_!” she cried again.

The young Nord nodded, the fury from the mace-wielding bandit’s taunt leaving him in a rush as sudden as it had come over him. “Alright. If you’re telling the truth, drop your bow over the edge of the tower.”

“What? Why?”

Leto pointed his sword at her. “Because if you’re yielding you won’t need it to shoot me in the back while I’m leaving.”

“What guarantee do I have that you won’t just kill me anyway?”

“My word as a Nord, and the fact that I have more important things to be doing than stabbing unarmed women. For your trying to say I was bad shot, I’m the only one out of the two of us that hit something. So it doesn’t look like it’s doing you any good anyway.”

She licked her wind-burned lips while she considered his words, then nodded. Leto watched it sail over the wall and disappear in a puff of snow as it hit the ground before he sheathed his sword. He was opening his mouth to recommend the woman seek out a new lifestyle when she screeched and leapt at him with a dagger.

There was no time for him to wonder where in Oblivion she’d drawn it from, he could only react. Before she could compensate for his utterly insane idea, he launched himself at her, slamming all of his heavily armoured weight into her with so much force she bounced off his chest. Her arms flew wide, the dagger being flung off somewhere over the side of the tower. The move had been more instinctual on Leto’s part then anything that could be a rational thought; he couldn’t dodge backward without tumbling down the icy stairs so his only option had been to throw himself forward and do his best to dodge her poorly aimed slash.

The bandit tumbled backward, her eyes widening as her legs hit the low wall. Her fingers scrabbled at the weathered and icy top of the crumbling barrier but there was nothing that could stop her from falling. Her scream echoed as she fell, summersaulting a few times before slamming into the snowy ground. Even over the wind Leto thought he heard her bones crunching on impact. He hoped he’d just imagined it.

He glanced over the edge of the tower and could only stare at her crumpled body lying open-eyed and gaping-mouthed at the foot of the tower. He should have felt guilty… should have felt sick now that reality had returned to him and he knew he was responsible for the deaths of three people. People; not monsters or beasts. But he felt nothing. These were bandits; bloodthirsty murderers and thieves that deserved what they had gotten. Still, Leto wasn’t sure if he should be concerned or not that he simply didn’t care that he’d killed these people. Even though the Imperials he’d been forced to kill had wanted to take his head for no other reason than he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, he’d felt guilty and sick when their bodies were lying at his and Ralof’s feet.

Leto let out a breath and reminded himself that he had more important things to worry about that whether or not his conscience should be suffering over a group of bandits – more of whom would be joining their comrades soon enough – that had likely left a trail of bodies in their wake. There was a chest shoved against the highest section of the wall, which still only reached up to his hip, and he knelt to see if it was locked. His luck was apparently holding for the time being as he discovered the lid opened with no more protest than the creaking of rusted and frozen hinges. He snagged the coin purse and handful of gems inside but left the spare fur armour and few other useless trinkets. The armour might earn him a few extra coins if he could sell it, but it was just too bulky to fit in his knapsack.

He got back to his feet and started back into the tower. Going down the wooden stairs was a lot harder than going up them. In his anger-fuelled charge he hadn’t paid much attention to the fact the steps were treacherously icy and that a single misstep would see him tumbling back down. With much more caution he made his way back to the doorway on the ground floor, searching for any more valuables along the way.

If he survived this adventure, he’d have enough coin to keep him fed and housed for a decent while. Especially if he could keep working for Adrianne and earning extra money chopping wood at the Bannered Mare.

After finding another coin pouch sitting on a table beside the stairs, he made his way back out the door that he had forced his way through and looked as though it may have been a poorly constructed addition to the tower after the bandits had made it theirs.

The idea of searching bodies for anything valuable made his stomach turn a little, but he justified it to himself that they wouldn’t be needing their things anymore and that they had probably been stolen to begin with. His efforts earned him a few more gems and coins, and after retrieving his bow he continued up the mountain road.

He was a little surprised to see Bleak Falls Barrow coming into sight not even an hour after he’d left the watchtower. He’d thought he was only halfway up the mountain, but it seemed the ancient tomb had been built into the rocky side rather than at the peak. The snow and wind had picked up even more and Leto knew there was a storm inbound. He wanted to be inside the protection of the ruins before it hit. Nord blood or no, blizzards were deadly and carried more hazards than just the cold when they blew in.

He spent a moment studying the structure in front of him, keeping an eye out for any sign of movement on the stone balcony above that gave away more bandits. He drew his bow and nocked an arrow, slowly creeping forward. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about being heard over the howling winds, but he could still be seen; he was a giant man in steel armour against a backdrop of white.

The first clue he had that the ruins had life outside and that he’d been spotted was an arrow digging into the ground at his feet, sending him staggering back with a yelp of surprise. The second was another arrow whistling past his head and a shout of ‘well ain’t this a surprise!’ as a bandit stepped out of hiding and started down the snow-covered steps toward him. It was almost a relief to the young Nord that he didn’t have to bother trying to sneak any more. He’d had nowhere to hide anyway, except for behind half-crumbled pillars that would have blocked his view too, and was relying on the weather to muffle the clanging of his armour.

But now he could drop his bow, draw his sword and charge in hollering. When he met up with fur-clad bandit who’d rushed to meet him, he swung his sword with the intent to take the Breton’s head off. The much smaller man easily ducked the strike and laughed as Leto almost tripped over his own feet. He barely managed to catch himself before face-planting onto the icy steps and whipped around, swinging his blade madly at the bandit again, grunting in irritation as the man spun out of the way.

“You call yourself a Nord?”

The insult made his face flush hot with anger an embarrassment. He already knew that he was a bad example of his kind for not being able to wield a weapon properly, he didn’t need some mouthy Breton criminal pointing it out to him. The bandit had dropped his own bow in favour of a dagger and despite the fact that he was in no position to be throwing back insults, Leto felt his mouth moving before he could think better of it.

“You trying to dance with me or are we fighting?”

The bandit laughed and gave a lazy swing with his dagger. It wasn’t until it was too late that Leto realised the Breton was only trying to distract him and that he had his back to the other archer on the balcony above him. He hollered in pain as an arrow tore through the flesh of his bicep, just below the protection of his pauldron.

While the dagger wielding bandit laughed, Leto lunged forward and slashed out with his sword. As he’d expected, the Breton made to dodge aside, but his motion was cut short when the young Nord grabbed a fistful of his hair. The act caused white-hot pain to sear through his injured arm, but he ignored it. Pain was better than being dead. The bandit cursed and struggled against the hold as Leto jerked him around until he was between the archer and himself. He tried to stab at the Nord’s legs with his dagger but Leto drove his own blade up through the man’s spine.

The dagger slipped from his fingers and he was still gurgling as Leto changed his grip to use him as a human shield and moved toward the archer.

“Damn you!” she screeched when she realised that, even though the Breton was half the size of the approaching steel-clad bear, the weather wasn’t going to let her aim well enough to get a clear shot.

She seemed to have no problems with filling her now-dead comrade’s body with more arrows, but it had no effect on the Nord lugging his limp form. His longer stride and walking forward gave him an advantage over the much smaller bandit who was still firing as many arrows as she could while she backed up the icy and slippery steps without taking her eyes off him to watch her footing.

Leto had just tossed the Breton’s corpse aside so he could finish off the archer who was throwing away her bow and fumbling to draw her dagger when a third bandit came charging toward them. The young Nord mentally kicked himself for assuming that the two he could see were the only ones around, but then decided he’d worry about that later; he had more important things to concern himself with.

To avoid being kicked down the stone steps when bandit three came to aid his companion, he scrambled past the archer, giving a wild slash with his sword to deter her from trying anything. By the time the third bandit made it to them – another Nord, Leto noticed absently – he was far enough away from any ledges or steps that he wouldn’t have to worry about being shoved over the side and falling to his death.

It was little comfort as the two stalked toward him, female archer with her dagger in hand and the Nord wielding an axe. Leto held his ground, not wanting to back up and discover the painful way that he’d moved himself to the opposite edge of the Barrow’s balcony. He kept his stance wide, eyes flicking between the two approaching enemies and watching for the slightest hint they were about to lunge while he adjusted his grip on his sword.

The woman was the first to dive in for an attack. Her dagger was raised above her head while she shrieked wordless fury. Leto stepped into her, driving his sword up into her uncovered gut. He vaguely wondered how the woman hadn’t frozen to death yet, wearing nothing but a fur skirt and another strip across her bust. She wasn’t a Nord, maybe an Imperial or particularly tanned Breton, so she should have been a shivering, blue wreck. Same with the other bandits in the tower. They hadn’t seemed bothered by the cold even though they were practically naked in the icy ruins.

He decided that that puzzle was something to ponder later, when he didn’t have the final bandit charging him and his sword currently stuck in the archer. He gave a few desperate yanks to try and free his weapon and only barely managed to dodge a swing of the Nord’s axe that would have cleaved his head from his shoulders.

Leto scurried back and managed to recover his stance before the bandit whirled on him again. “Not bad for a whelp.”

The younger Nord bared his teeth in a defiant snarl. “I had some practice on your friends in the tower.”

The bandit laughed, searching for an opening while the two circled each other. Both were careful to keep away from the ledge, but also to keep distance between them. “Mouthy little thing, aren’t you, boy.”

Leto barely managed to force down the rage that burned inside him at the memory those words conjured up; the bandit in his village that had attacked him and kept him from being able to save his father, smug while he called him a little boy.

“The last bandit that called me ‘little’ died choking on his own blood.”

His only response was more laughter and the bandit pretending to tremble in fear. Leto lunged, his fury getting the better of him as he slashed at the other Nord’s sneering face. The bandit easily deflected the strike with his axe that forced the younger man’s arm out wide with bone-rattling force. He took advantage of Leto staggering back and leaving a massive opening by slamming his iron axe into his chest.

Sparks flew as iron scraped on steel and Leto swore he heard his breastplate crack. The blow sent him stumbling back further and he barely managed to keep his grip on his sword.

“Ha! I think you’re bleeding,” the bandit taunted, giving a lazy twirl of his axe.

Through the jarring pain Leto realised that the fact he was still alive was as miraculous as it was ominous; the bastard was toying with him. He didn’t see any need to rush as he casually started pacing back and forth, grinning and spinning his axe. Leto wasn’t a threat worth worrying about.

The young Nord decided it was time to change his mind about that.

Shoving the pain of what he really hoped weren’t broken ribs to the back of his mind, he straightened up and secured his grip on his sword. Despite the bandits taunt, the only part of him that was bleeding was the arrow wound in his arm, but since the arrow was still actually in there he wasn’t going to pass out from blood loss any time soon… though remembering about it did make that particular injury jump a few rungs higher on his list of priorities.

“That all you got, snow-back?” Leto growled.

Apparently annoyed that his opponent was still eager and capable of a fight, the bandit roared and charged in, axe held aloft. Leto sidestepped and swept his leg out in the hopes of tripping him. The attempt worked, just not how it was intended. The Nord bandit dodged the limb but slipped on the icy stonework.

Before he could regain his balance, Leto slashed with his sword and was rewarded with a snarl of pain as he opened a deep gash in the older man’s thigh. He kept going with his momentum, spinning to strike again. His sword was blocked when the bandit managed to get his axe up just in time. The two Nords grunted and struggled against each other for a moment before they finally gave each other a rough shove and separated.

The bandit made to lunge forward but wound up groaning and hobbling as pain lanced through his leg the second he put weight onto it. “You’ll pay for that!” he snarled when Leto smirked at him.

The older Nord’s next attack was aimed at Leto’s injured arm but missed. The younger responded by aiming a kick at his bleeding wound, but the bandit staggered out of the way. The two started circling each other again, feinting and testing their enemy’s reflexes. Leto was hoping to wear the bandit down, watching the line of crimson on the snowy stones grow thicker with every step.

After what felt like hours, Leto could see the other Nord was beginning to grow pale, his eyes blinking sluggishly as he struggled to focus on the younger Nord in steel armour. Finally, desperation took over and the bandit started swinging wildly. He was determined to kill Leto before he bled out. Once the boy was dead, he could tend his wound and loot the body.

Impacts rained down against the young Nord’s armour but they lacked the strength to do any more damage than light dents. Leto was grateful; any single one of the savage strikes that had connected could have killed him if the bandit hadn’t been losing too much blood. Though Leto supposed that the blows wouldn’t be so frenzied if he weren’t so desperate to survive.

Once the hits grew weaker and slower, the younger Nord lowered his arms and readied himself to retaliate. On the next sloppy attack, Leto stepped forward and slammed his knee into the bandit’s injured leg, then as he crumpled down onto his knees, he slashed his sword across the man’s throat. Blood sprayed from the gaping wound as he instinctively clutched it, then he toppled sideways, eyes wide even after they stopped seeing.

Leto took a moment to catch his breath. He was certain that there were no more bandits outside, otherwise they would have shown themselves by now. He glanced at his arm and groaned in despair when he saw that the arrow had gone straight through his bicep, the tip glistening with half-frozen blood. An inch or two higher and it would have bounced harmlessly off his pauldron.

“Stendarr’s mercy,” he muttered, taking a deep breath for what he knew needed to happen next.

With the angle of the shaft, he wasn’t going to be able to yank it out the way it had gone in… he’d have to drag it the rest of the way through. Oh joy. But in order to do that, he was going to have to get the fletching out of the way. That meant snapping the arrow; and that was impossible to do with one hand with it sticking out the back of his upper arm. He just simply couldn’t reach.

He searched the area briefly and selected a pillar that would suit his purpose and walked over. He gritted his teeth and grasped the arrowhead, turning his back to the stones. What he’d really like to do was hack the damn thing until it was short enough not to catch on anything and wrap it in bandages, but with his mother being a priestess and what passed for the village healer, he knew it would be dangerous to leave it in his flesh. He and his sister had been filled with more knowledge than Leto had ever wanted about the kinds of things someone could catch from an improperly tended injury. The arrows the bandits were using were iron, and outlaws tended not to care for their gear. He needed to get the thing out of him and wash out the wound, because the head was likely rusted and the last thing he needed was for infection to set in. He’d had an infected wound once before in his life, and he didn’t fancy repeating the experience.

Tightening his grip on the part of the shaft he could grip to keep the arrow steady – he didn’t want the damned thing moving inside his arm – he shoved backward toward the pillar. He bit down the yell of pain and heard the wood snap over the clang of his armour. He spent a moment sucking in deep breaths, opening his eyes that he hadn’t even realised he’d closed.

“Easy part done… now for the bad part.”

It took a good few minutes before he managed to work up the courage to pull the arrow free. When he finally did, a thin sheen of sweat covered his brow and he sank to his knees. He let the broken arrow clatter to the stones and focussed on breathing, praying to any god he could think of that he wouldn’t pass out.

As soon as his hands had steadied enough for him to be able to, he unbuckled his knapsack and rummaged around one-handed until he found his bandages. After scraping up fresh snow and using it to clean the punctures as best he could, he wound linen strips around his bicep and tied them. He couldn’t help the growl that escaped as white-hot pain lanced up his arm when he tugged the knot as tight as possible with his teeth and good hand. Ideally, he’d like to take his armour off and check the wound properly, but with the possibility of a bandit sneaking up on him at any moment and the fact that donning and removing his armour took a long time – not to mention was downright foolish in his current situation – he’d have to make do with what he’d done. The pauldrons didn’t separate from the cuirass, so he couldn’t even use a shortcut. All he could do for now was hope that none of the fur of his armour had gotten stuck in the wound or under his bandages and that the snow he’d used to clean the punctures was as clean as it had looked.

Leto used the pillar behind him to help him back to his feet. He had a job to do, and it wasn’t going to get done while he leaned against the stone and focused on his pain. At least his ribs weren’t broken… though they were definitely sore. And his armour was going to need repairs once he was back in Whiterun, but at least it was still holding together and would continue protecting him.

With a heavy sigh he remembered that he’d once again dropped his bow in favour of his sword. He trudged down the icy steps, slipping near the bottom and simply resigning himself to the fate of sliding down the rest on his backside. He retrieved his bow and then went about looting the bodies. He had been wondering how they could possibly be able to survive in the cold in their minimal armour but the question was answered when he found an empty vial of skooma on the archer. They likely hadn’t even noticed the temperature.

After retrieving what little coin they had on them he moved toward the massive, black iron doors that led inside the tomb. He shoved against them with his uninjured side, wincing as they shrieked on rusted and frozen hinges.

If anyone was inside, they definitely knew he was there. To Oblivion with stealth. He had his sword drawn and moved toward the far end of the room, not bothering to try and keep quiet. Skeever bodies littered the floor and he could see two bandits already dead, bite marks covering their corpses.

He heard a snatch of conversation, something about a thief named Arvel and the golden claw of Lucan’s, before the pair of bandits standing beside a camp fire made comment of the fact they didn’t recall any of their comrades wearing heavy armour. They turned toward the clanking young Nord and their eyes widened in surprise even as they drew their weapons. Leto got the impression that even though they had definitely heard the door, they had assumed it was another bandit, rather than an intruder.

Now that he could see there were definitely only two of them, Leto raised his sword and charged them. He had the element of surprise on his side; even though the bandits saw him coming and were arming themselves, they clearly hadn’t expected him to just run straight over, bellowing out a battle-cry that echoed off the stone walls of the chamber.

The young Nord had expected another furious battle but instead he killed the bandits in a matter of seconds. He reasoned that they had probably been trusting in their comrades to deal with any threats and were simply relaxing if the empty mead bottles on the floor were any indication. He searched through their pockets and tried to open an old and worn chest nearby, but he found little of value and the chest turned out to be locked. He considered smashing it open but figured it could wait until he’d properly cleared out the tomb. He didn’t even know where to start with picking a lock and certainly didn’t carry any of the flimsy metal tools needed on him.

Keeping his sword drawn, Leto cautiously made his way down the corridor the two had set their camp near. He’d seen at least a half-dozen dead skeevers and the bandits had left the bodies of their friends out, rather than tending to them; which meant there could be more of the disease-ridden vermin lurking about somewhere.

It looked as though part of the structure had collapsed. Vines were spreading across the floor that was also strewn with debris. One passage was completely inaccessible and Leto could smell damp earth over the musty air and mossy stone. Sprinkles of dust and pebbles showered him more than once, accompanied by the sound of groaning stone. He’d never even thought that such a sound could exist until that moment. And he was quite certain he could have done without hearing it. It made him wonder if the whole place was about to come down on his head.

A sudden noise over the sounds of the tomb caught his ears and he instinctively ducked down against the wall. It was a poor hiding place, but thankfully the individual that Leto had heard has his back to him. The fur-clad man was in a chamber at the foot of the stairs, a torch in one hand, and was stepping cautiously toward a lever in front of a rusted gate. As Leto watched, he pulled the lever and made to step toward it, obviously expecting it to open.

Instead there was the high pitched squeaks of poisoned darts shooting from the walls, imbedding into the man’s flesh. He gave a low groan as he slumped to the floor, torch slipping from limp fingers to roll a few feet away.

When Leto was certain that the trap had finished firing its deadly projectiles, he straightened up and made his way to the fallen man. With the toe of his boot, he shoved him onto his back, sword at the ready in case he wasn’t quite dead. The blank, wide eyed and sightless stare he received told him that there was no danger of being attacked. The young Nord crouched down beside him and started searching him over. The other bandits inside the entrance hall had mentioned an ‘Arvel’ with the golden claw. Maybe this was him and he would be able to accomplish one goal of his trip quickly. He’d thought that Arvel was an elven name… but he’d never really met many elves, so he could have been wrong. This man was, he thought, a Breton, but Bretons were supposed to have come from elves, weren’t they?

Leto have a heavy sigh when he found the corpse without anything resembling a claw. He had have some gold though, which he slipped into his own coin pouch. So this guy was just another bandit then, not the thief that had Lucan’s prized ornament.

He glanced around when he noted that he gate was still shut. While it was possible time had seen the gears that worked it decay to the point they no longer worked – especially since one of the decorative sculptures had fallen off the wall a very long time ago – he knew that he had little choice but to try to get the gate opened. There was light on the other side from lit braziers, which meant that someone, somehow, had managed to get to the other side.

The question was how to open the door without being poisoned to death. He had a hardy constitution as a Nord, but the bandit had been turned into porcupine with the amount of darts that he’d been stuck with… and even Leto’s armour wasn’t going to protect him from every single one.

His gaze fell onto a trio of stone pillars on the left side of the room. After an experimental shove, he discovered that they could be rotated. So it was a puzzle then. Only the right combination would allow the lever to open the gate… a wrong one ending with a pointy, poison-filled death.

Leto cursed and glared at the dead bandit, as though this predicament was all his fault. He’d never been any good at puzzles. His sister and mother had all of the brains in that department. Maybe he could knock the gate down? It was old and rusted… maybe it was weak enough that a few solid shoves would break it.

By the time the young Nord abandoned that idea and resigned himself to the fate that he’d have to figure out the puzzle, he was breathing heavily, sweating and bruised in several places from slamming himself into the iron bars in an attempt at shouldering it open. He’d even managed to cut his fingers when he’d thought of another bright idea; lifting the gate. He’d thought he might be able to use his strength to raise the gate enough for him to duck under it.

Cursing and aching, Leto kicked a stray rock across the chamber and scowled at the three pillars. Well fine, if he had to solve a puzzle, then he’d use the time to have lunch as well. He munched on a half-loaf of bread as he turned one of the stones and examined the carvings on them; hawk, snake, whale. One on each face. The other two were the same. They were three of the ancient Nord gods… the Hawk had become known as Kynareth, the Snake became Shor – the Hawk’s lost husband, and the Whale was Tsun the shield-thane of Shor.

Did that have something to do with the answer? The three were connected through love and loyalty. But then what order would the symbols be put in? Snake in the middle because he was the centre of the trio? If so, then who would come first? Hawk because she was his love, and the Whale last because he was the final to join the legendary trio?

Leto huffed out a frustrated breath and scrubbed his hand through his hair. His mother used to tell him stories about the puzzles in the ancient places… but he’d never paid much attention. He’d been more interested in hearing how the heroes leapt from clifftops to land on the backs of dragons and sliced at their wings until they were grounded. Then the hero’s companions could finish the fire-breathing beast off and save the day. Whenever she’d created a puzzle and encouraged her children to try and solve it in order to hear the next part of the tale, it had always been his sister who had come up with the answer.

Hawk, Snake and Whale… three turn-stone pillars… in a line…

Stendarr’s mercy, by the time he solved it, the dragon or dragons would have already destroyed Skyrim!

He looked up at the ceiling helplessly, finishing the last dregs of his mead. He paused when his eyes landed on a decorative plaque, framed by a stone carving of an open mouth in a giant head. It bore the image of a snake, exactly like the ones on the pillars. Across the opposite side of the wall was another plaque, this one with a whale instead.

Leto groaned and sighed. Surely it couldn’t be that easy…

The fallen decoration he’d noticed before bore another snake and the young Nord almost wanted to kick himself. After tossing his empty bottle away and stuffing the last chunk of bread into his mouth, he moved to each other pillars and rotated them until they matched the order depicted by the wall: snake, snake, whale.

He jerked the lever a little more viciously that was needed and the gate shrieked as it sluggishly rose. Leto rested his face in a hand for a moment, mentally kicking himself for his stupidity. He’d been so focussed on what the symbols represented that he hadn’t thought for a second that the answer might be that simple.

Shaking his head and drawing his sword, he moved through the now-open arch. _Serves me right for trying to be clever_ , he thought to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise if my updates aren't as regular as they should be for a while. I've had this story in other locations for a little while, but i've only just joined Ao3 today, hence why i've got it all up in one hit. 
> 
> But i was in a car accident not long ago and, as melodramatic as it sounds, a young man literally died right beside me. I didn't know him, but that wasn't the point. I was trying to hold his head up and help him breathe while he was being cut free from the car, but he died. I felt his heart stop. So i'm shaken up and focus hasn't exactly been an easy thing to find for me recently.
> 
> So please be patient with me. 
> 
> I appreciate any feedback you have (and if i've made any mistakes please let me know) and thank you for reading :)


	10. The Writing on the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second half of Leto's journey through Bleak Falls Barrow.

The skeevers that had been attracted by the unearthly racket he’d made trying to knock the gate down and then finally managing to open it had been nothing he couldn’t handle. Maybe that had been why the gate had been closed; whoever had gone through previously and lit the candles and braziers didn’t want the disease-ridden pests getting into the camp.

He made his way down a spiral staircase that he was certain was going to give way beneath his weight at any second, only to find himself entering a chamber decorated with glistening cobwebs. Spiders didn’t bother him, but with the amount and thickness of the strands of web he was seeing, he knew he was in for a fight worse than the tunnels beneath Helgen. And he’d had Ralof with him that time. Now he was alone.

He continued down a corridor and shuddered when he saw the amount of webs increasing. By the time he actually noticed the archway, he felt like he was inside a giant cocoon rather than a burial site. A horrific place that only a mind touched by Sheogorath could imagine. Every time he put his feet down, they stuck to the thick, white carpet, squelching as he peeled them up again for his next step. Trying to push through the archway was impossible. The webs that covered it were too dense and for a fleeting moment he thought that he’d managed to get himself trapped before managing to wrench his arm free. That meant that there were a lot of spiders on the other side… or just a few really big ones. Either way he wouldn’t know until he hacked his way through it.

Leto grunted in disgust as his efforts of clearing the archway were rewarded by a face-full of the sticky sheeting. He was peeling it off and fumbling with it now stuck to his hands when a voice cried out.

"Is... is someone coming? Is that you Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?"

The young Nord paused. That voice carried a strong Dunmeri accent. He didn’t know much about mer, given how isolated his village had been, but there had been a dark elf couple that lived there; and there was no mistaking the inflection.

"I know I ran ahead with the claw, but I need help!"

The claw? Was this the thief ‘Arvel’ that had been mentioned before by the now-dead bandits inside the entranceway? If so, that was good. He could get the golden ornament and be one step closer to being able to get out of this Oblivion spawned crypt.

He made his way into the web-coated chamber, searching for the source of the voice. When he found the Dunmer, sandwiched between layers of sticky-silken sheets and hanging helplessly, he made his way over, keeping an eye out for any sign of movement.

Leto looked the Dunmer up and down, not sure whether to be amused at the elf’s predicament or shudder at the fact he was strung up to be some beast’s next meal. As far as the Nord could see, the Dunmer had been backing away from something, weapon drawn, and gotten stuck in more webbing like those that had covered the archway he’d come through. Then more sticky white stuff had been placed over him to keep him trapped. His bow was out of reach, dangling uselessly from the webs near his leg as though he’d dropped it in fright as he became stuck.

“Are you Arvel?” Leto asked, settling on grinning at the pinned elf.

Without the spider that caused the problem being around, he had to admit he looked a little funny; pinned between blankets of webbing with his limbs splayed out in a comic display with only his flushed face uncovered.

“What? Who are you?” The Dunmer strained against his entrapment, apparently not sharing the Nord’s amusement. “Oh, never mind. Cut me down before that thing gets us!”

“Are you Arvel?” Leto repeated, raising his sword a little as a threat of death or a promise of freedom; however the elf wanted to interpret it.

“Yes,” he sighed.

So this _was_ the thief that had stolen Lucan’s claw from the counter of his shop. Good; one job down. “You have the claw I want.”

“Yes, yes, now cut me down or you’ll never get it,” the Dunmer said as he squirmed impatiently. When Leto shot him a scowl, he stilled and seemed to decide to change tactics. “Help me down and I’ll show you what it’s used for. You won’t believe the power the Nords have –” His crimson eyes suddenly widened and he stared at something behind and above Leto. “No, not again! Get me down! _Now_!”

A writhing strip of shadow fell over Leto and he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. The terror on Arvel’s face told the young Nord all he needed to know about what was coming, as did his panicked shrieking and thrashing, but morbid instinct couldn’t stop him from slowly turning around to see the horror for himself.

He gulped. That spider was bigger than he was, and he was anything but small. Dark ichor dripped from several punctures on its body, no doubt from the thief’s attacks before he wound up snared in the creature’s webs. Its hairy legs twitched as it lowered itself on a thick, white cord to the floor that was already littered with so many previous web-cocooned meals. It seemed it had been hiding in a large circular opening in the ceiling that Leto hadn’t noticed before.

Leto almost stepped back into the terrified Dunmer before collecting himself and remembering that becoming ensnared in the same trap would wind up with them both dead. The young Nord might want to be reunited with his family in Sovngarde, but he didn’t fancy making it there by being sucked dry of his insides by a spider more than twice the size of a bear.

When the creature’s legs touched the floor, Leto was already moving, skirting the edge of the room back toward where he had entered. The spider rose its front two legs and hissed, skittering around to face its next-intended meal.

"Where are you going? Come back!" Arvel screamed, struggling for all he was worth.

Leto ignored the thief and switched his sword for his bow. The spider lunged forward, spitting a grey-green glob of poison. The young Nord tried to dive to the side but caught the sticky poison on his hip. He grunted as the venom soaked through the gaps of his armour, chilling him to the core as it burned his skin with an icy bite. Not even a second later he felt his gut roiling and his head spinning as the poison started its work. It was much more potent than what he had been hit with escaping Helgen.

His hip and leg muscles felt strangely numb while his skin seethed as though he’d dunked himself into an icy river in the dead of winter. As the giant spider skittered toward him, he loosed an arrow. With a satisfying squelching sound it sunk into the creature’s foul-smelling flesh. Its mandibles gnashed in rage and another gobbet of poison was spat.

It missed Leto entirely and he risked a glance backward. He was close to the archway. If he could get through there and make it back to the spiral staircase then he’d be able to shoot at it while it tried to get up the narrow steps. Surely it was too big to fit up them…

A hissing sound drew his attention back to the monster and he let another arrow fly. This one punctured an eye and the chamber echoed with a screech that had Leto’s heart jumping into his throat. He’d known spiders could hiss… he hadn’t known they could _scream_.

The creature was wounded, making it clumsy as it darted forward to try and latch its spiky mouth-parts onto the young Nord’s head. He shot again, and even though it was poorly aimed and fired with trembling hands, the arrow still pierced one of the slimy, spiky and altogether disgusting mandibles.

The spider stumbled back, hissing in pain. It didn’t take long before another ball of venom came flying at Leto, catching him on the shoulder and a few drops splattering against his face. He cried out and swiped at it instinctively, dropping the arrow he’d been about to nock.

He forced himself to keep his eyes open, despite the fear that the icy venom might have splashed into one. With the spider’s front legs raising up again in angry challenge, he couldn’t afford to let the hideous thing out of his sight.

Spiders had never bothered him before. Even the ones in Helgen had just reminded him that, while they were disgusting little creatures, they were nothing to be afraid of because they died just as well as any nuisance. But he’d also never encountered one quite this big before. In the forests around his village they’d been large… but he’d never seen one that’s smaller eyes were easily the size of his fists.

And to complete the experience, this one was pissed off that its meal was fighting back.

The damn thing could probably swallow him whole… then he remembered that that’s not how spiders killed their prey. It was so much worse than that.

He backpedalled into the archway, spurred on by imagining those disgusting mouth-parts sinking into his flesh, feeling their icy bite as he had his insides sucked out. He heard Arvel crying out for help, begging Leto not to leave him there, but he ignored him. For now the thief was safe. The spider was too distracted with Leto to bother with a target already pinned and waiting to be eaten.

As Leto reached for another arrow, trying to keep his hands steady against the poison seeping into his skin, the spider lunged. He swore he nearly soiled his armour when its front legs reached for him, hooked claws at the ends flexing. But his undignified squeak of terror turned into a defiant laugh when he realised that the hideous creature couldn’t fit through the gap and had actually become wedged, making it easy pickings for his arrows… even though he could barely aim a bow straight.

The spider spat poison at him again and he leapt to the side, narrowly dodging the icy venom as it splattered against the wall. He straightened back up and aimed the bow again. The arrow lodged itself in what passed for a shoulder joint on the hairy monstrosity, making it shriek in pain and rage. Leto kept firing arrows, grinning fiercely as the spider tried to abandon attacking him to scurry back out of the archway, only to discover that it couldn’t go anywhere. After another arrow sunk into its bulbous body, the creature gurgled before crumpling to the stone floor, legs curling inward and spasming.

Leto had been aiming for its face the whole time… but he’d take them as good shots since the nightmare-inducing thing was dead.

Now the only problem was getting past it and back into the room with the captive Dunmer. A disgusted shudder ran up his spine when he realised he was going to have to push the giant spider out of the way. He slung his bow over his shoulder and stared at the occasionally-twitching and foul smelling corpse. Venom was dripping from its mandibles and dark ichor oozing from the puncture wounds to its body.

Like most Nords, personal hygiene had never been something of terrible import to Leto. If your hands were dirty and you were about to eat, you rinsed them. If you’d just fought a troll and were covered in their gore, you should probably clean up a little before embracing a loved one. He had been a blacksmith’s apprentice, constantly covered in soot and sweat rather than creature blood, and lived in the frozen Jerall Mountains; he didn’t need to bathe every day and smell of snowberries or flowers when he was just going to be slaving over the hearth again and getting just as filthy the next day. But just the thought of having to press his hip and shoulder against the dead spider to shove it out of the way, when he was already covered in blood, gore, webs and venomous spit made him want to go and jump into the nearest river and scrub himself raw.

It was only when he heard Arvel’s panicked voice again that Leto realised he hadn’t moved and was still staring that the corpse in front of him.

"You did it. You killed it. Now cut me down before anything else shows up."

Those words were enough to encourage him to get over the disgust and get moving. His hip ached where he’d been hit with the poison and he felt as though he might vomit or collapse… maybe both. The arm that had taken the poison was the same one that he’d been shot in, and the icy pain creeping into the inside of the wound was making his head spin violently. He supposed he was lucky that the splash to his face hadn’t hit his eye, but he still wasn’t in any condition to fight another battle.

Making noises of protest and disgust the entire time, he managed to shove the spider’s corpse just far enough back out of the doorway for him to slide past it. At least in death its body had been relaxed enough to free it from where it had wedged itself. He had liked the idea of trying to clamber over the damned thing and try to squeeze himself between it and the top of the doorway even less than what he had actually done. And he was going to have enough itchy hairs to pull out of his arms as it was, without having to worry about them being all over him.

The thief was grinning at him, congratulating and gleeful now that he wasn’t about to be dinner. Leto simply scowled and stopped in front of his squirming body, waiting for the giddiness to fade. It didn’t take long, given that Arvel was still trapped and even though he had been lifted a foot off the floor when he’d been snared, the Nord in front of him was still looking down to his face.

“Well, come on, get me down!”

“Hand over the claw!” Leto growled, trying to sound as menacing as possible. Surely the thief would realise that he’d had to cut his way through his friends to make it this far. And he had just killed the giant monster… so he should look intimidating rather than exhausted like he felt.

Arvel wiggled against the webs, an eyebrow arching. “Does it look like I can move?”

Leto blinked. Right, if he couldn’t get himself free, he couldn’t reach into his pack either. “Oh… good point. Alright, fine, I’ll cut you down, then you give me the claw. Deal?”

“Alright I promise, just get me down!”

Leto drew his sword and gave one last glare at the thief before he searched or the best place to start hacking. The Dunmer might not be a bandit, even though he had been working with them, and had stolen but until he attacked, the young Nord couldn’t just kill him. There was no honour in killing a helpless man, and Leto had seen enough death to last him the rest of his days. And he’d certainly been the cause of enough of that death too.

Being careful not to accidentally hit the elf beneath, he hacked at the thicker ropes of webbing. With every strike, Arvel first flinched and then grinned as he started to feel his bonds loosening.

"It's coming loose. I can feel it."

Leto barely managed to pull back a swing in time to miss him as he started thrashing again. “Would you hold still? I nearly took your arm off!”

The Dunmer abruptly stopped moving and let the hulking Nord free him. When his feet hit the stone floor he breathed a deep sigh of relief, likely the most he’d been able to fill his lungs in a long time.

"Sweet breath of Arkay, thank you."

Leto nodded and sheathed his sword and held his hand out expectantly. “You’re welcome. Now, give me the…”

He trailed off when the thief grinned and spun on his heel. Faster than Leto could blink, he was darting down the corridor that had been blocked by his cocoon. "You fool, why would I share the treasure with anyone?"

“Hey!” Leto hollered as he started after him. “Get back here!”

The thief was quick on his feet, but Leto had the advantage of a much longer gait – not to mention the fuel of anger and embarrassment – on his side. Arvel had only just emerged from the short, winding corridor and into a semi-circular room, decorated with urns and ancient stoneware, before he felt a fist like iron latch onto the back of his armour. The young Nord had dove at the thief, scruffing him and slamming them both into the solid, ridged altar-like table in the centre. The thief was gasping, trying to get his wind back after having it crushed from him by far-too-many pounds of angry Nord landing on him, while Leto spun him around slammed his back onto the stone. Arvel was still choking as he grabbed the front of the thief’s armour and lifted him up by it so they were eye-to-eye.

The thief’s crimson ones widened when he saw clear-blues glaring at him with the fierceness of an angry bear. “Give me the claw, you scrawny little snow-back!”

“Alright! Alright, just put me down and I’ll give it to you,” the Dunmer squeaked, feet kicking at thin air.

Leto shook him viciously, not caring if he jarred the thief’s neck. “I’m _not_ falling for that again.”

The Nord glared into the elf’s red eyes, putting on his most fearsome scowl. Arvel was gripping his gauntleted wrists in both hands, feet dangling uselessly. One hand slowly let go and started moving. Faster than Leto could blink, the thief drove his thumb down against the dot of red staining the bandage around his bicep, digging his nail in as deep as he could. Instead of reaching into his satchel like Leto had thought, he’d been gearing up to attack.

The Nord howled and dropped him, gripping at his wound as the blood stain began to spread across the linen. He heard the sound of a sword being slid from its scabbard and swung his fist wildly, hoping to knock it out of Arvel’s hand before he could use it. The thief agilely dodged aside, using the table Leto had originally slammed him against as leverage to roll around behind the Nord.

Leto whipped around, tearing his own sword from its sheath. The Dunmer thief ducked under the first swing easily, angling his iron sword up in an attempt to slip it into his armpit where there was nothing but leather protecting him. Before the blade-tip could make contact, Leto curled his steel-protected arm around it and yanked back.

Arvel gave a cry of shock as the hilt of his sword slipped from his fingers. The Nord tossed it away. The loud clang as it clattered across the stone floor echoed off the walls, making both of them cringe.

Leto held his sword out, aiming at the Dunmer’s chest. “Claw. _Now_!”

Instead of obeying, Arvel reached into his boot and drew a dagger. “I’m not sharing the treasure!”

He leapt forward, snarling. Leto moved into the attack and felt the jolt up his arm as the thief’s body fell onto his sword. He thrust it deeper, waiting for the choked gurgles to stop before stepping back and lowering his blade, letting the now-dead Arvel slump to the floor.

Leto leaned back against the table to catch his breath. While the fight hadn’t been strenuous, his heart was pounding from the adrenalin flooding his veins. He hadn’t wanted to kill Arvel, but when he’d attacked he’d had no choice. It was him or Leto. But even so… while killing had become something of a common occurrence in the past week, he wasn’t used to it.

He pulled himself together quickly; he had a job to do and he’d had no choice. And besides, bandits and a thief? That was no great loss to Skyrim.

After swiping his sword through the air a few times to clean off most of the blood, Leto sheathed it and knelt beside Arvel to search him. He found what looked like a journal, but left it since he couldn’t read it. When his fingers touched something cool and ridged, he grinned.

As he pulled the golden claw from the dead thief’s satchel he couldn’t help but feel relief. Finally! One job down, one to go. As soon as he found that chunk of rock the Jarl’s wizard wanted, he could put this tomb behind him.

He tucked the ornament into his own knapsack and made sure it was secure and wouldn’t fall out if he had to fight. So far he considered himself extremely lucky that he hadn’t come across any draugr. But that also made him suspicious. This was supposed to be a burial crypt, so where were all the bodies of long-gone warriors? Why did the bandits make camp here believing that there was some kind of treasure? He could understand why Farengar believed that an ancient tablet was in the Barrow… but the questions were just making him nervous.

He breathed out a sigh and rose to his feet. There was only one way he was going to get answers and find the damned stone tablet he’d been sent for. Only one doorway, on the opposite side of the room, seemed to lead anywhere. The other two were either lined with shelves or seemed to have been a storage area at one point in long-forgotten history.

A brazier was lit in the hallway and Leto could see more light coming from further into the ruins. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Either someone had been through here recently enough that the fires hadn’t yet burned out, or some kind of magic was keeping the tomb lit eternally. He doubted the former, as Arvel had been trapped in webs for who-knew how long and surely if some of his companions had gone ahead without him, they would have circled back to check why he had lagged behind… and they likely would have killed the giant spider before moving on too. The latter was an idea he didn’t want to try and think too deeply about. Magic was a fool’s venture; nothing good ever came from studying how to manipulate the world around you to your whim and harnessing knowledge best left unknown.

He kept his hand on his sword hilt, finding some reassurance in the feel of the leather and steel against his fingers. As he padded down a slope he saw the first evidence of the Barrow being a tomb; shelves carved into the walls on either side housed the long dead warriors and heroes of old. Well, there was the answer to one question… he rather preferred it _un_ answered though. Their armour had decayed, patches of it rotted away and leaving little more than rusted remnants clinging to the desiccated husks of those that wore them. A chill ran up his young Nord’s spine as he took in their disfigured faces; shrivelled and leathery and completely discoloured, patches of wiry hair clinging to skulls, both on top and along the jawline in some cases.

He gulped and averted his eyes, focusing completely on the floor as he emerged into a large chamber with more occupied stone beds. Some of the draugr were either naked – their burial armour or outfit likely having been made from something that rotted quickly with their corpses – or wrapped up in linens, leaving nothing but their heads poking out. He didn’t want to wonder why some were interred that way, while others were fully armoured, laid to rest with their withered hands holding their sword upon their breast.

Leto shouldn’t be here. These places were for those lost in great battles, so their bodies could rest in peace while their souls rejoiced in Sovngarde. He felt like a dirty grave-robber, even though he had less than no intention of looting the bodies. The idea that he was trespassing, once it entered his mind, wouldn’t leave. Sure, he’d been sent by a Jarl and his court wizard to retrieve something from the Barrow, but the living had no place creeping around among the honoured dead.

And he had to admit to himself that he was creeping. His footfalls were as light as he could make them, as though he were trying not to wake the corpses up. The thought sent another shiver down his spine and an icy feeling of dread settled in the pit of his stomach. He knew he was being foolish, but he couldn’t help but remember the tales of his childhood… the ones where the draugr walked the halls of their tombs, killing anyone living who dared to disturb their burial place. The stories where disobedient children who refused to do their chores or go to bed when told would be taken away by the bone-walkers in the middle of the night and never seen again.

Internally he told himself how stupid he was being. But he didn’t utter a sound aloud, because he was still too afraid. He cringed with every step, hearing the creaking and clanking of his armour as he tried to move silently through the chamber. He moved around a half-crumbled stone pillar and caught sight of some kind of spiked gate up ahead. It was open wide, but a large, circular stone with a rune carved into it on the floor made him pause to examine it closer. A pressure-plate trap. One step on that round stone and the gate would swing forward. Leto made a mental note to keep his eyes peeled for more traps.

There was a loud creaking sound, and the young Nord stiffened. He hadn’t moved again yet. That wasn’t his armour that was scraping against stone. Two loud thumps – heavy boots landing on the floor – followed by a dusty, rattling snarl.

Leto glanced behind him and was met with the mummified face of a long-dead Nord. The desiccated eyelids should have been closed, just as they were seconds ago, but instead they were wide open, revealing glowing blue orbs where eyes had rotted away. Even though both face and magical eyeballs were beyond the ability of forming expression, Leto swore he could see fury and something akin to hatred burning in the blue glow.

For the first time since entering the Barrow, Leto was glad there was no one around to hear him shriek like a little child. Draugr were supposed to be a myth! They were meant to be nothing but a story used to frighten children away from straying too far from their home and into the ancient ruins dotting Skyrim’s landscape. When he and his sister were children, he used to use stories of the restless dead to make her do his share of chores or go to bed, telling her that the bone-walkers would come down from the mountainside and take her away if she wasn’t a good girl and did what she was told. It was the same lot of stories that older children used to tell him when he was too young to realise they were lying. The tavern keeper’s son would tell him to sweep the floor for him, or go and fetch another case of mead, or the draugr would get him.

Now he was face to face with the source of his childhood nightmares. The creature growled something in a language Leto had never heard from its dried up throat and its creaking arms raised the axe it had been resting against the floor. This snapped the Nord back to his senses and he drew his own significantly smaller weapon. He was grateful that the undead creature was slow, despite wielding the long-handled weapon. The sideways swing was easily ducked and Leto brought his sword up and under the draugr’s ribs, praying that even though the thing was already dead – well, at least it was only wandering around through some kind of dark magic – that stabbing it in whatever was left of its heart and lungs would put it down permanently.

His guilt at being a trespasser in the ancient resting place was forgotten when the bone-walker didn’t seem even a little bothered by the fact it had just been impaled. Leto gulped when he realised that, if anything, he had just made it angry.

Its mouth opened and it again spoke in the unknown language. The young Nord tried to keep from vomiting as he caught sight of the shrivelled, black tongue, lolling inside its mouth. He staggered back, shielding his face with an arm, as the draugr laughed at his obvious horror, spraying him with foul breath it should not have had. It lifted its axe and shambled forward, still grinning.

Leto would like to say that it was a sudden burst of intuition or skill that had miraculously come over him that enabled him to drive his sword into the undead abomination, over and over, and dodge every swing of its axe meant to take his head off. But the reality was that he was close to soiling his armour in terror and just wanted the thing to _stop moving and laughing_!

When it finally fell to the floor, the young Nord tried to pull his sword back so he could get out of the chamber as fast as his trembling legs would carry him. He cursed when he realised that in his panic, he’d somehow managed to drive it through the joins of what was left of the decayed breastplate and it was wedged.

He gripped the hilt with both hands to yank it free and wound up stumbling backward, only to find himself slamming into another draugr. He hollered in shock and spun, lashing out with his sword and slicing through the leathery skin of its torso where the ancient armour had deteriorated and fallen away, nearly cleaving it in two. A rattling croak escaped its throat as it crumpled heavily to the ground, falling half-slumped against an empty alcove where bodies were laid to rest.

Leto kept gripping his sword, hands trembling and breathing heavily as he spun his head wildly, searching for any movement that said another unnatural monstrosity from myth was rising from its supposedly-eternal slumber to come and kill him.

He’d always known he wouldn’t be able to sneak up on a deaf man, but to have literally woken the dead? That had to be some kind of record. His previous attempts – poor as they were – were abandoned as he backed away from the pair of corpses. The dead were walking, and apparently had fantastic hearing considering their ears had rotten away.

The sound of a rusted blade being drawn from behind him had Leto whipping around. He stared in horror as a greatsword wielding corpse rolled its shoulders as though warming up living muscle for a fight. He stepped back, adjusting his grip on his own sword, and something caught his eye.

The pressure stone that he had guessed would cause the spiked, wooden gate to snap shut was close to him. He shot a glance at the draugr as it started toward him and made up his mind. If the gods were merciful, then this would work, and the runed stone would be connected to the gate… and time won’t have eroded whatever mechanisms made it function.

If the gods had decided that it was too amusing watching him flail around like a fool, then his idea would likely wind up with him flying into the arms of the draugr.

While he wasn’t as badly injured as he could have been after all the fighting he’d done, it had started taking its toll. The arrow wound in his arm throbbed bitterly after Arvel had clawed it, and his body was aching from far more bruises and batterings than he really wanted to think about. But this crazy idea might just let him keep some of what little energy he had left and mean he wouldn’t have to worry about receiving any more wounds from that giant sword being carried by the undead monster.

With a grunt, he lunged forward, slamming his foot down onto the circular stone plate. Without even waiting to make sure it had worked, he dove aside and rolled, pressing himself as flat against the wall as he could. His efforts were rewarded with the sight of the spiked gate slamming into the unwitting draugr with enough force to snap bones. The sword was knocked from its fingers as the speed of the trap swept it off its feet and threw it across the room to slam, face first, into one of the stone columns that supported the ceiling. Leto gave a breathless laugh as it slid to the floor, the glowing blue life-magic gone from its hollow sockets.

Somehow he managed to haul himself up onto his hands and knees. The wooden gate creaked in protest as it slowly swung back into its original position. As Leto dragged himself to his feet, using the carvings in the stone wall, rather than the crypt beds to help, he looked around the room, straining all senses to try and detect any sign of movement.

For now, at least, it seemed that the dead were staying put.

*

Between the traps – one of which being a corridor filled with swinging axes that almost had him losing limbs – the draugr that either rose from their stone beds or simply shoved open their sarcophagi to lurch at him, and the mind-boggling maze of the tomb, Leto’s nerves were frayed and he was about ready to simply turn around and leave by the time he made it to the dusty chamber decorated on both sides with murals.

All exhaustion faded as he looked around. He wished he’d thought to buy some torches or retrieve the one from the bandit that had been killed by poisoned darts so he could get a better look. At least the spilt braziers offered enough light for him to make out most of the details. His eyes grew wide and he suddenly felt like a child again, listening to his mother’s stories, curled up in bed with his eyes closed to picture himself in the world her narratives created. He was standing in a Hall of Stories and it looked _exactly_ like his mother had described.

Ancient gods whose names he knew and who he’d prayed to almost every day growing up stared back at him as he traced his fingers over the dusty and cobweb-shrouded reliefs. He knew that these spun a tale, spoke of a part of history that verged on religious myth, but that had been whole heartedly believed by his ancient kinsmen. He wished he could read the symbols and images to know what they said… but beyond using his imagination and what his mother had told him, he had no idea what they meant.

Through effort of will alone, he managed to tear his eyes away from the walls to keep moving. His way ahead was blocked by some kind of round, stone door. Plaques depicting more of the ancient gods were set onto three rings around some kind of keyhole. He frowned and moved toward it, reaching out and touching the cold stone and testing to see if the rings could be moved. It took some effort and earned him a dust cloud puffing out into his face, but he managed to change the image. A combination lock, much like the lever from the gate-room and pillars.

He turned his attention to the keystone. Three round holes were at the top of the circular piece of stone and beneath them was a carving that resembled a dragon’s claw. A humourless chuckled escaped him at that; if only dragon’s feet were really that small.

Well, the ornament from the Riverwood Trader was obviously some kind of key or handle to open the strange, round door… that was why the Dunmer thief had stolen it in the first place. He believed there was treasure on the other side, and that the claw would give him access. But what was the damned code? Leto was no scholar, but he knew that if he just spun the rings through every combination they could make he’d be there for the rest of his life… and if a wrong combination triggered a trap, then that might not be very far into the future.

The last puzzle he’d had to solve had been much simpler than he’d expected, having nothing to do with the gods at all, their symbols being used for just that: pictures. The answer had been on the wall above his head. But somehow he didn’t think the people who built Bleak Falls Barrow would use the same trick twice, especially if there really was something of value on the other side of the door. And Leto was hoping that something was the Dragonstone. He hadn’t seen anything that might be what the Jarl and wizard had wanted anywhere else, but he was sure that there were only so many ways a stone tablet could look, so he couldn’t have missed it. Maybe it had been buried with the great warrior for whom the tomb was built to honour… if his mother’s stories had been accurate about tombs like the Barrow.

 _The mighty dragons hold the secrets of the past in their talons_. A line from one of his mother’s stories entered his mind then. He reached into his pack and drew out the ornament that had been stolen from Lucan.

“I wonder…” he murmured to himself and spun the claw over in his hand.

He grinned triumphantly as he looked at the ‘palm’ of the claw. While the symbols had warn a little through time, it seemed that all the previous owners and Lucan himself had taken good care of their treasure, because he could make out their shapes easily enough.

With grunts of effort and curses of pain as the movements caused his injured arm and bruised ribs to throb in protest, Leto pushed the rings until they matched the code on the claw. The echoes of stone scraping against stone finally faded and he prayed there was nothing left to wake up with the noise. From what he knew, this should be the final chamber of the Barrow. If the Dragonstone was ever in the tomb, it was on the other side of the door. He just hoped that that’s _all_ that was there, that whatever warrior might have been interred on the other side stayed dead.

He slid the prongs of the claw-key into their holes and twisted the ‘ankle’ of the ornament that was actually a handle.

The rings that he’d just spend so much time and energy forcing into position spun as though they were the cogs of a well-oiled Dwemer machine – making the young Nord scowl – until they all read Akatosh. There was a second of silence, then the door began to sink into the floor. Leto was covered in a rain of dust and chipped stone and he staggered back, coughing and waving his arms wildly to try and clear the air.

 _That_ hadn’t happened in his mother’s stories. The hero of the tale had opened the door and entered into a room filled with the greatest treasures ever forgotten by the Nords. He hadn’t been showered in rubble and then blasted with the stench of damp earth, rotted plant and dead animal or the faeces left behind by their living kin.

He couldn’t figure out why he could smell what he did until he made it to the top of the stairs immediately behind the door. The constructed hallways gave way to a massive natural cavern, littered with a few manmade objects that were almost entirely swallowed by centuries’ worth of mosses, lichens and fallen dirt.

The next thing that caught his attention was faint chanting. He didn’t realise that it didn’t echo in the open cavern as it should. Instead he felt relief that someone was madder or stupider than he was… or at least equally so, for being down in the bowels of the Barrow. At least that explained all the lit braziers he’d been wondering about… though how they got past the claw-keyed door he couldn’t fathom.

Seconds later he was cursing in a combination of wonder and frustration. On the far side of the cavern, built up on a huge stone platform and framed by waterfalls, was a decorative curved wall. It looked as though it had been designed to elicit a reaction of awe, and it certainly achieved that as Leto gazed at it with his jaw hanging open. But that feeling was equalled by irritation. Looming above the etched plane of the lower section was a massive depiction of what Leto assumed was a dragon’s head. But it was the etchings themselves that were the source of his curses. Even with his illiteracy, the distance he was standing at and in the poor lighting he could see that the markings were some kind of jagged script etched into the white stone. It wasn’t the common tongue – he knew enough about words to know that – and he was fairly certain it wasn’t any form of meri script either. It could only be the Dragon Stone he had been sent to retrieve… but how in the name of Dibella’s bouncing tits was he supposed to do so? It was as wide as a house and just as tall, it wasn’t exactly going to fit into his knapsack.

He hadn’t realised he’d been walking forward until he wandered too close to a flock of bats that had been nesting, unseen, in the cavern’s roof. They startled and took flight in a swarm of screeching fur and leathery wings. Leto yelped and flung an arm up to protect his face, the other wrenching his sword from its sheath, as the warm bodies blew past.

When the flock was gone, leaving the young Nord’s heart racing and swearing in ways that would have seen him getting his hide tanned with his father’s belt – even at this age – he swiped instinctively at his face. He took a moment to steady himself, glancing over his shoulder to glare at the wide tunnel in the cave roof that the bats had disappeared into, then turned back to focus on the wall.

Something wasn’t right. He could still hear the chanting, it was growing louder – more _insistent_ – with every step closer he took to the platform. But he was alone in the chamber. Where were the voices coming from? And the glow that was lighting it up, that he had thought was due to the braziers, seemed to be coming from a cluster of the strange script itself.

What magic was this? Farengar hadn’t told Leto anything about the stone he was after having any enchantments on it.

He didn’t even notice that he had made his way across the cavern, passing over a narrow stone bridge, or that he now ascended the steps to the platform on which the wall stood. The altar table, large chest and sarcophagus nearby were invisible to the young Nord. All that existed were the blazing markings of the wall and the voices beckoning him closer. His irritation and confusion had faded to be replaced by only the mesmerising chant.

He slowly moved toward the curved, ancient stone with its strangely glowing word, arms hanging at his sides and sword dangling from loose fingers. His head was filled with the echoing chorus of voices, pounding in his head like drums. Light swirled from the wall, reaching for him with a roar like a mountaintop wind, loud enough to drown out even the chanting. The world around him darkened until there was nothing but the blue and golden glow, nothing but a single word; _Fus_.

The skin of Leto’s temples felt stretched, his mind ached. He understood that new knowledge had been poured into him; _Fus_ , meaning… Push? His sluggish brain tried to latch onto the word, as though it was something profound and Nirn-shattering… but the grasping fingers of his consciousness seemed to fall short just before he could latch onto it. ‘Push’… why did the word feel so different now, yet still so entirely normal? It was just a word like any other… so why did he feel like he was _missing_ something? His head felt like it would burst, but at the same time he felt almost empty. There was something he wasn’t understanding. It was as though his mind had been opened and he’d been granted just enough to know, for the first time in his existence, how truly ignorant he was.

It was frustrating and terrifying at the same time. He’d always known he wasn’t the brightest spark of the forge, but for once… he _knew_ that there was so much he didn’t understand. That he _couldn’t_ understand.

His vision was slowly returning after being robbed by the blinding tendrils of magic-light that had forced themselves into his head. He blinked sluggishly, trying to clear his thoughts. All he could focus on was how, with every blink, he could see the jagged script glowing. The light had faded from the stone of the wall itself, but it had burned itself into Leto’s retinas.

The feeling of a sword slicing through the armour and flesh of his back snapped him out of whatever trance he’d been in with a cry of pain. He stumbled face first into the carved wall that was now spattered with his blood. He spun around, putting his back to the word that had driven itself into his mind. He could feel warmth dripping down his back beneath his armour. Of all the places he could have been struck, his new enemy had found one of the few weak places between steel plates where there was only leather between his flesh and the edge of a blade.

At first Leto had thought that he had been so entranced by the strange wall that he had completely missed the mysterious chanters, but at the same time as he laid eyes on the draugr he realised that the moment he had absorbed whatever power the wall had been holding, the voices had also stopped. And there was no way a lone draugr could have produced those sounds. Mere feet from where the undead abomination stood, the sarcophagus he hadn’t paid any attention to lay open, the heavy stone lid thrown aside as though it had weighed nothing.

Unlike the rest of the bone-walkers he’d encountered in Bleak Falls Barrow, this one was wearing better armour; less decayed and the helm decorated with large horns that curved slightly from the top of its head. The rusted greatsword clenched in its desiccated hands glistened in the brazier light with Leto’s blood. That snapped the young Nord back to reality and he scrambled to retrieve his own sword that he’d dropped after being sliced open.

By the time he had managed and spun to face the undead creature, it had its weapon raised and was mid-swing. Leto lurched aside, narrowly avoiding losing his head. As he stumbled to regain his balance, he took a mad swipe, missing the draugr entirely.

The two circled each other. Leto could feel the malicious intelligence radiating from those blue-glowing eyes as they bore into him. The thing was studying him, watching him to see what his next move would be. It was even more unsettling than fighting the undead creatures from the rest of the tomb; it was smart and calling upon the combat experience it had had in life. The others hadn’t seemed to do that. Or, at least, not as effectively. The young Nord feigned a strike, quickly wrenching his sword back to come over the draugr’s block and slice open its shoulder. It gave a loud growl as its leathery flesh parted but no blood oozed out, having dried up long ago.

Leto didn’t have long to feel proud of his strike as the long-dead warrior dropped its jaw open and shouted at him. The pants-wetting bolt of fear that surged through him disappeared a second later when he suddenly realised his feet were no longer touching solid ground. The dank cave whirled around him as he sailed through the air as he cried out in confusion. One of the words that had come from the creature’s mouth he recognised; _fus_. Was it some kind of spell? What power had he accidentally –?!

His body slammed against hard-packed and damp earth, forcing the air from his lungs in a loud grunt. His limbs flailed madly as he rolled down a short but rocky slope before being dunked in the frigid water of one of the streams created by the waterfalls inside the cavern. Coughing and spluttering, Leto managed to drag himself half out of the ditch. Fearful of where the draugr was, he swiped his wet and muddy hand over his face to clear his eyes of water and hair, blinking and whipping his head around.

The dusty old bone-walker was still standing near its former resting place, shrivelled throat barking out husky laughter. Leto felt his face flush. He scrambled up the edge of the stream and retrieved his sword, baring his teeth and trying to ignore how his wounds stung louder with the muddy water entering them and his aching muscles protested at being forced to move after being thrown like a ragdoll.

“You think that’s funny do you?!” he roared and started back toward the platform.

If the draugr heard him, it gave no indication, too busy laughing. Leto couldn’t believe that he was being humiliated by a man who’d been dead longer than history remembered. The fear of the unnatural way these warriors were up and fighting again had faded after his unexpected bath and was now being replaced with indignant anger. He was tired of this godsforsaken Barrow and its walking dead!

At least the stream had washed off some of the gore of the bandits and the giant spider he’d been covered in before. Now he was just dripping wet, muddy… and smelled like a wet troll.

His clanging armour broke the draugr out of its humour and its burning gaze settled back on the annoyed Nord. It made a gesture with its sword that obviously said ‘come here’, its face twisted in a grin that Leto was unsure wasn’t just because its flesh had withered and tightened on its face. When its jaw flexed, teeth clicking together, he paused. What was to stop the damned thing from bellowing him across the cavern again if he went to face it in melee? The new wound on his back was throbbing painfully and his injured arm was beginning to feel weak. Could he face this new threat with just his much smaller sword? If he was too slow, he’d be killed.

Baring his teeth in defiance against the taunt, Leto dropped his sword and unslung his bow from his back. Aiming it hurt. Drawing it hurt even more, but it was better than charging back over there and trying to re-kill the draugr while it was trying to kill him.

He loosed the first arrow. It pinged harmlessly off the curved, formerly-magical wall. The undead warrior turned to look at where it landed, then back to Leto. If its face could make expressions, the young Nord was sure it would be looking at him in bemusement. The second and third arrows missed just as spectacularly and the draugr started laughing again.

“Oh, come on!” Leto snarled. His back was burning, every movement of his shoulders tearing at the log slice in his flesh.

The draugr started moving toward the stone steps, eyes fixed on the Nord firing wildly in its general direction. Maybe it had grown bored with waiting.

“No, not you!” Leto cried, glancing behind him to see how much distance he had to back away before he would fall back into the stream. Not enough.

He nocked another arrow and took a steadying breath, closing one eye to try and aim it better. The bone-walker was drawing closer. It was faster than the others in the tomb. With its different armour and its burial location, separate from the rest and behind the Hall of Stories, Leto guessed that it had probably been the commander of the rest when they were alive. When he fired again, the draugr paused to stare at the feathered shaft sticking out of its gut. Leto didn’t give himself a chance to feel proud that he’d hit, he was too busy trying to put another one into it.

Shoot: miss. Shoot: hit. Shoot: miss. Shoot… where in Oblivion had that arrow gone? No time to think about that, the undead warrior was getting closer. Leto’s reaching fingers were brushing against more air now than shafts. He was running out of arrows. A quick shot that he’d been certain was going to fly wild wound up sinking in the rotten head of the draugr, making its head snap back and causing it to stumble.

The young Nord hissed a cheer, waiting for the thing to drop to the ground. Instead it raised its head again and fixed the twin orbs of burning magic inside its eye sockets on him, feathered shaft protruding out from between them.

Leto’s jaw dropped and he quickly abandoned his bow for his sword that was laying in the dirt. With a roar that echoed around the cavern, he lunged forward. He didn’t care if the thing was already dead or not, an arrow between the eyes should stop _anything_ from moving. It wasn’t fair! He hacked away, forcing himself to ignore the pain of the draugr’s rusted sword cutting into his own flesh. Pain he could handle. Pain was good; it meant he was still alive and fighting.

When one of his savage blows was dodged, he reversed the swing and slammed the hilt down on the horned helmet. If his opponent were alive it would have rattled its brain. Being dead, however, it only served to knock it askew and push the creaking creature to its knees. Leto bellowed and arced his sword downward at the exposed neck. All of the recent fighting he’d put his new blade through had dulled the edge some, but it was still sharp enough to slice through the dead skin and vertebrae and sever the draugr’s head from its shoulders.

When the two parts slumped into the wet dirt, Leto staggered back. “That had _better_ have killed you!”

There was no response. He gingerly kicked the head so he could see its eye-sockets. They were empty of any magical faux-life. Leto rested his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Despite everything, he felt guilty about desecrating the crypt and mutilating the bodies within… but he reasoned it hadn’t entirely been his fault. And after the damned things had woken up and tried to kill him, he certainly wasn’t going to return them to their places. For all he knew the strange, evil life that had possessed them would return and they’d try to throttle him while he did.

After picking back up his bow and slinging it over his shoulder, he made his way back over to the platform with the strange wall. With his unexpected interruption over, he was free to fret about what in Oblivion had happened and what he was supposed to do about the Dragonstone.

Is that what he had absorbed? The Jarl’s wizard had seemed determined that the stone tablet he was after was going to help answer questions about the dragons. But he’d wanted it brought to him… presumably physically and _not_ within the head of a ‘hired brute’ who couldn’t even understand what had forced itself into his mind. All he could grasp was one word that he didn’t even know the meaning of.

Leto traced his fingers along the sharp lines of the word that had been glowing before, which were now stained with his blood. Would Farengar be pissed at what had happened… or was this his plan all along? No, that couldn’t be right. Surely if there was some new knowledge to absorb, then he would have wanted it for himself.

But then what was Leto supposed to have done about the wall? From what the wizard had said, he’d assumed it was relatively small. Small enough, at least, to be transported back. The mage had said to bring him the _stone_ , after all. If he’d believed it to be as large as a building, presumably he would have told him to pick up rubbing supplies or return to escort him once whatever dangers within the Barrow were cleared out. Leto had no paper or charcoal to make rubbings of the massive wall. And there was no way he could memorise what was scratched into the stone. He could barely remember the letters his mother had taught him to write his own name, let alone the chicken-scratch symbols of an entirely new – or possibly so ancient it was forgotten – language.

“To Oblivion with it,” he muttered, turning away from the wall.

There was nothing he could change about what had happened. Whatever he had absorbed, it was done now. If that interfered with whatever Farengar wanted with it, then that was his problem. He should have made sure that whatever ‘source’ told him about the Dragonstone had checked their facts about its size and what it was. He’d return Lucan’s golden claw ornament to him and buy paper and charcoal. Then he’d return once he’d patched his wounds and make rubbings to take to the court wizard. And if that wasn’t good enough, well, he supposed he’d have to escort the pompous prat back.

He started shambling toward the steps on the other side of the platform, behind the sarcophagus, careful not to slip on the moss-slick stones. The staircase seemed to lead up to a tunnel and in his current battered, exhausted and frustrated state he wasn’t even sure he’d make it to the top of them without tumbling back down. But his only other choice was the drag himself all the way back through the entirety of the Barrow… which wasn’t happening.

He had to pause by the open sarcophagus to rest for a moment, leaning both hands against the edge. He closed his eyes, hoping that he could stop his head from spinning by sheer force of will alone. He hurt in more places he could remember ever hurting before. Even spending a day slaving away at the forge with his father pushing him to work harder and faster hadn’t left him this sore.

Then again, he may have burned himself a thousand times blacksmithing, but he’d never had an arrow shot through his arm or had half his back sliced open while working. With a low groan, he pried his leaden eyelids open and made to push himself upright.

Something inside the stone coffin caught his attention and he reached in to pick it up. It was a tablet, a little over a foot long. Etched onto one side, he saw a miniature version of the dragon-like head like was atop the wall behind him. He sighed heavily. So this was the _real_ Dragonstone, tucked away with a dead warrior for however many centuries… and he’d nearly left without it. The rest of the cracked face of the tablet was covered in a map with numerous stars marking locations. It took a moment, but Leto finally recognised the shape of the depicted land as Skyrim from the map he had bought from the Riverwood Trader. The locations meant nothing to him, but he guessed that they might to someone who could actually read a map. He turned it over in his hands and saw more of the same script that was on the wall.

Leto found himself grinning, his fatigue forgotten along with his confusion about what the writing on the wall meant and why he had absorbed magic from it. He had the golden claw and the real Dragonstone; both things he’d been sent into this godsdamned Barrow to retrieve. He wouldn’t have to come back later, he wouldn’t have to face Farengar’s anger at accidentally stealing some power that he wanted… though he’d still probably have to ask the arrogant wizard about what exactly that power might be and what it would do to him.

He wrapped the Dragonstone in a spare shirt and carefully tucked it into his knapsack along with the golden claw. The tablet was heavier than he’d expected for its size. Once he’d buckled his pack securely, he moved toward the staircase again with a little more energy than he had before his discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if there are any mistakes in this chapter. I've tried my best to hunt them all down and edit, but writing is still hard for me at the moment because i'm still shaken up from my car accident. I admit i've been playing Skyrim more than i've been writing it at the moment. It's kind of been my therapy (along with LoZ, Morrowind and Oblivion) escaping into worlds completely different from what i'm in at the moment, where i can actually save someone. (Sorry if i sound a little melodramatic, it's just where my head is at right now.)
> 
> If you spot any mistakes please let me know so i can fix them :) I hope you are enjoying Leto's story so far.
> 
>  
> 
> On a more fun note, some of the scenes from this story are actually directly from my game-play experience (such as the being snuck up on by the draugr lord at the Word Wall) Also, i'm hoping to expand more on the absorbing of souls and Words, rather than just *bam* and its done. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	11. Favours

When Riverwood finally came into sight, he almost dropped down to his knees and wept with joy. He didn’t know exactly what time it was, but it was well after dark. When he’d emerged from the natural rock tunnel at the end of Bleak Falls Barrow, he’d discovered that he was hopelessly lost. His idea of retracing his steps and coming back out the way he’d first entered failed when he remembered that in order to get the cave-mouth exit, he’d had to jump off a high ledge. One he couldn’t rescale.

Even if he could read his map, he had no idea where he actually stood so he had no point of reference other than the river he could see. But which river was it? For all he knew he was on the other side of the mountain from the entrance to the ancient tomb.

The sun had already gone down, leaving him once more wishing he had thought to buy torches. Instead, he was left stumbling around in the dark, both moons concealed behind thick clouds. For a while he’d thought it would snow, or maybe rain, which would have made his situation just that much more _perfect_.

An old alchemist woman whose house he had happened upon took pity on him – though also seemed entirely amused – and gave him easily followed directions. He could have hugged her, but didn’t. He wound up using the last of his arrows on a group of what he suspected were bandits and that was after they’d been attracted by the sounds of him battling a pack of wolves whose territory he seemed to have intruded upon.

But when his feet landed on the stone bridge that would carry him into the village, his mind shrank away from the exhaustion and the numerous wounds he’d accumulated to focus purely on the warm glows of hearths seeping out beneath the doors of homes, the torches being carried by the guards sent to protect the peaceful place by Jarl Balgruuf, and the comforting smell of wood smoke from the chimneys.

And most of all; the scent of food and mead from the inn, drifting lazily across the river on the breeze. Leto let himself be drawn to it like a lunar moth to flame, shambling toward Riverwood like the draugr he’d faced earlier on in the day.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he should probably tend to his wounds. Especially the one of his back, which felt like it had split him open from hip to shoulder. But it wasn’t exactly something he could reach, and the fact that it was still burning told his tired brain that he would survive; he knew what the beginnings of infection felt like, or when to be worried something else was wrong. His mother had been a healer, after all. He was too tired and too hungry to give a damn about patching himself up. It could wait until he had a hot meal and a few meads in him before he cleaned and did what he could to bandage the wounds. When all else failed, he did still have that emergency healing potion.

The looks he received from the patrons when he staggered through the Sleeping Giant Inn’s door were something that would have made him blush, had he been in the state of mind to even notice. The barkeep seemed well-versed enough in the language of Grunt that he understood Leto’s dire need for food and alcohol and quickly provided both while the hulking young Nord slumped down into a seat.

When a wooden plate piled obscenely high with freshly cooked food was dropped down in front of him, Leto groaned his heartfelt thanks and handed over a fistful of coins that he’d liberated from the bandits at Bleak Falls.

By the time he was soaking up the remnants of his meal with a crust of bread and downing the last mouthful of his third bottle of mead, he felt more like a living, breathing human again. Language skills and thought had returned enough to him that he considered going over to the Riverwood Trader to return Lucan’s ornament, then muttered to himself that he could wait until morning.

Leto heaved himself out of his seat and carried the empty plate and bottles over to the bar. Orgnar, at least that’s what he thought the other Nord had introduced himself as, nodded his thanks and kept wiping down the tankard in his hands.

“Can I get a room? And maybe a bucket of water to wash in?” Leto asked. The hearty meal was settling nicely and the warmth of the inn making his eyelids droop.

“You want to speak to Delphine for that.”

The younger Nord nodded and glanced around. In the main room was a bard and a few other patrons, none of whom were female. “Where is she?”

“She’s out,” Orgnar grunted.

Leto turned back to him, resting his elbows on the bar. “Then I probably want to speak to _you_ for a room.”

“No, Delphine’s the innkeeper. I just cook and serve drinks.”

“When will she be back?” the young Nord asked, trying to keep his voice even and not grind his teeth.

Orgnar set down his tankard and picked up another to begin polishing it. “Don’t know. Not tonight, though.”

The urge to slam his face into the bar – and by ‘his’ Leto wasn’t sure if he meant his own in exasperation or the barkeeper’s – crawled up to his mind but he settled on a glare. “Look, kinsman, I’ve just fought my way through a horde of bandits, skeevers, a spider the size of three bears and bone-walkers that were supposed to be a myth. I’m tired, I stink worse than a rotted skeever carcass and this is an _inn_. Why can’t you just rent me a room?”

Orgnar shrugged, and if he was at all sympathetic it didn’t show on his expressionless face. “Sorry, but she makes the rules. You want a bath, the river’s just out the door. And if you want to sleep, I won’t complain if you set yourself down in a chair for the night.”

Leto scrubbed a hand through his hair and let out a heavy sigh. He was too exhausted to argue. With a grumble of ‘fine’ he made his way back to the chair he had fallen into before and did so again. The whole inn would just have to put up with the stench of sweaty, gore-covered, still-wet-from-a-cave-stream Nord and armour, because he just couldn’t be bothered going back outside to take a dip in the river. He seriously considered being truly petty and removing his armoured boots, just to make them all _really_ suffer for the inconvenience of the barman making him sleep in a chair, but he realised that, while the idea was extremely tempting, he couldn’t actually be bothered bending down to do it. He’d probably have to remove his armour to lean forward that far, anyway, and that really was too much effort. Instead he slouched in the wooden seat and let the sounds of the bard’s voice and lute wash over him.

At least he was mostly in tune.

*

Leto hadn’t realised he’d actually fallen asleep until a gentle shaking of his shoulder roused him. Mercifully, it was his uninjured arm, but the ache that returned as consciousness seeped in made him instantly foul-tempered. He might have unleashed a string of curses that would make a civil person faint, but it must have been too garbled to understand because whoever was _still_ jostling his shoulder only laughed.

“I thought you said I could sleep here,” Leto grumbled, thinking it was the barman.

“I said nothing of the sort,” a voice he vaguely recognised but couldn’t for the life of him remember where from chuckled. “I was thinking you might like somewhere better than the middle of the inn for rest though.”

My some miracle of strength, Leto managed to pry his bleary eyes open and force his head to lift from his chest. He blinked for a moment, staring at the grinning, moustached face of a stocky Nord before pieces slotted together in his mind and he straightened up.

“Hod, how are you?”

The miller looked him up and down, chuckling again as Leto swiped a palm across his chin to wipe away drool from sleeping with his mouth hanging open. “Better than you. Good gods, boy, you look like you’ve been dragged though Oblivion by your teeth!”

“Bleak Falls Barrow,” he murmured. “But close enough.”

“Well, what are you doing here? Why didn’t you come and stay with Gerdur and I?”

Leto stared at him blankly, then felt his cheeks start to redden. He’d been so focussed on getting food and sleep when he’d dragged himself into Riverwood he’d entirely forgotten he had an open invite into their home.

“I… uh… I was so tired I couldn’t think.”

Hod snorted a laugh and clapped him on the back. When Leto flinched and groaned, the older Nord’s eyes widened and he glanced at the gash in the armour. “Sorry. Come back home and we’ll see about patching you up… and maybe getting you a bath.”

In the time it took him to force his body out of the chair, the miller had picked up a crate of mead bottles from Orgnar, paid for it, and returned to help steady Leto as he tried to force his legs to do their job. As he gave a spine-cracking stretch, he noticed the bard glaring at him from his position at the edge of the fire, plucking the strings of his lute with more aggression than the song he played warranted.

Leto felt his face heat up once more and he looked away awkwardly, sheepishly following after Hod as he made his way to the door. If his scratchy throat was anything to judge by, the poor bard’s music had been accompanied by his rumbling snoring.

Not a compliment for a musician in the least.

The brisk night air woke Leto up enough to manage the short walk to Hod and Gerdur’s house with some degree of coordination. He opened the door for the older man carrying the clinking crate then followed him through it.

“Love, Ralof, look who I found snoring his head off at the Sleeping Giant.”

Gerdur glanced up from a book she was reading as Leto closed the door behind himself. She gave him a smile, clearly not yet noticing his condition. “What were you doing there? You know you are always welcome in our home.”

Before Leto could respond to her question or thank her, he was greeted by a cheery clap on his shoulder from a grinning Ralof. The expression evaporated when he took in the sight of his new friend. Gods, he must look worse than he felt, Leto realised. And he felt plenty bad.

“I see you haven’t been idle since I saw you last, my friend.”

Leto chuckled. “Aye, when I delivered your sister’s message to the Jarl, he asked me to help him and his wizard find something to help with their investigation into the dragons…” He gave his fellow young Nord an almost mournful look. “In Bleak Falls Barrow.”

Ralof sucked in a shocked gasp, blue eyes widening and face paling. Their brief conversation about the looming mountain-top ruins had revealed exactly how he’d felt about the place. He’d probably heard all the same stories that Leto had grown up with after his sister had settled in the shadow of the nightmare-inducing tomb. The Stormcloak ushered him into a chair and passed him a bottle of mead.

Gerdur, realising what state their guest was in, lit a few more candles and moved them to the table, ordering Hod to go and round up healing supplies. When he returned, she shooed him away to fetch clean water and set up what she had while Ralof helped Leto stand and remove his armour. As his muscles shifted and his battered armour was peeled away, he tried to keep his swearing quiet and to a minimum. Frodnar, the millers’ son, was asleep in his bed with their family dog snuggled up beside him. And while Gerdur could likely give most men a run for their money in an arm wrestle, she was still a woman. He’d been cuffed up the head enough times by his father during his teachings of keeping a civil tongue around women for it to have sunk in.

When he finally stripped off his undershirt, there was a unanimous curse from the household. Leto glanced down at himself and wrinkled his nose. He wasn’t sure what was worse; how badly he was injured or how bad he smelled. Bruises were darkening in large, misshapen patches on his chest and torso and he’d earned more cuts than he’d originally realised. The worst bruise by far was the one on the centre of his ribcage, stretching from his collarbones nearly down to his stomach. He wondered again if the Nord bandit had cracked any bones when he’d slammed his axe into him.

“Sit down,” Gerdur ordered gently, adjusting a chair so she could utilise the light from the fireplace where Hod had poured half the water into a pot to heat.

Leto obeyed and she inspected his bicep, which was trickling blood again and aching furiously.

“By Talos, Leto, you look like you were sat on by a giant!” Ralof exclaimed.

The younger Nord chuckled, then winced. “No. That almost happened a few days ago, though.” He paused and frowned. “Or was that yesterday? Ysmir’s balls, I can’t keep track of days anymore.”

Gerdur prodded his ribs, making him scowl and bite down curses. She gave him a sympathetic look, sensing how much pain he was in by his squirming and the clenching of his fist. “Nothing seems to be broken, at least.”

Leto grunted. “That’s nothing. You should see my back. Feels like I’ve been half-flayed.”

A concerned frown creased the woman’s brow and she nudged him forward in his seat. “By the gods! Ralof, pass me that cloth on the table. Leto, stand up and turn the chair around. Lean against the back.”

The Stormcloak obeyed and swore when he saw the gash up his friend’s back as he spun the seat around and slumped back down. Leto tried to glance over his own shoulder but Gerdur put a hand on the top of his head and forced him to face the front.

“How bad is it?”

“You have an almost foot-long slice near your left shoulder blade.” Gerdur dipped the cloth into the heated water and started dabbing around the gash. She frowned at how red and irritated the surrounding skin was. “This is looking rather angry.”

Leto snorted. “Funny, so was the thing that gave it to me… well, until it magicked me half-way across the cavern into a stream and started _laughing_ at me.”

He felt a light cuff up the back of his head, but wasn’t sure whose hand had dealt it.

“You haven’t tended to it at all? It’s full of grime.”

Leto hissed as he felt her begin to clean the wound itself. He supposed it was a good sign that it hurt as much as it did; any infection that was wanting to set in hadn’t taken hold yet. “I was too busy trying to kill – _re_ -kill – the damned thing. And I couldn’t reach, anyway.”

Ralof appeared in front of him, face screwed up in worry. “What was it that attacked you?”

“For starters, bandits…” He met Ralof’s eyes, knowing that he was going to enjoy hearing what he said next about as much as Leto was going to retelling it. “Then draugr. You know how they’re supposed to be stories to scare children?”

“Aye,” the Stormcloak said slowly.

“They’re real. And they fight surprisingly well for dead men,” he added bitterly.

“Many were once great warriors or even heroes.” Gerdur pointed out, still trying to be gentle as she tended his back.

“Aye, but they’re meant to be dead!” Leto exclaimed. “Not to mention _not real_. And even though they can swing a weapon their damned shrivelled arms should’ve fallen off! It’s just not – _ow_!”

Gerdur didn’t know if he had been going to say it wasn’t right or it wasn’t fair, but either way she couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re lucky this hasn’t gotten completely infected. Or damaged your spine.”

Leto shot her a caustic glare over his shoulder. “Aye. _Lucky_. That’s how I think of myself after the past few days.” He yelped as she dabbed at his wound with the cloth again. “All my luck has been bad.”

“Not entirely,” Gerdur smiled kindly, not that he could see it now he was facing forward again. “You are still alive. The gods have given you trials and you have passed through them all. Any other would be dead.”

“Or have pissed themselves and run away,” Hod added.

Ralof shuddered and reached for a bottle of mead. “So the stories are true? There really are bone-walkers up in that Barrow?”

“Not anymore,” Leto muttered.

He and the Stormcloak traded unsettled looks while Gerdur and Hod chuckled. Ralof scowled at his sister. “How can you find this funny? What’s to stop one of those things from coming down the mountain and taking off with Frodnar in the middle of the night? All the legends say they kidnap children! And if one part of the legend is true, why aren’t the other parts?”

Leto grunted his vehement agreement. If the undead did come for the village, he doubted many of them would stand a chance unless they were armed and happened to be wearing heavy armour. Draugr were said to prefer naughty children, and the problem was that, at some point, all children were. No youngster was safe from the monsters.

“Oh, come on, brother,” Gerdur scoffed. “The draugr have never done such a thing before and they are hardly likely to decide to do so now. And besides,” she ruffled Leto’s hair playfully, “Our new friend has killed them all.”

Leto cocked an eyebrow at her. “They were already supposed to be dead. It didn’t stop them from getting up and trying to kill me.”

“How did it get you so good, anyway?” Ralof asked, cringing in sympathy as he watched his sister wiping the cloth over the wound, causing it to bleed profusely.

For a moment, the young Nord said nothing. How could he explain about the strange wall that had passed some kind of spell onto him and that he didn’t even know what it did? Should he even try? Some kind of ancient, long forgotten _magic_ – something all Nords feared – was inside his head, whispering the same word in an unknown language over and over. He couldn’t feel it doing anything to him, and aside from the roaring, wind-like sound it had made as it drove itself into his mind, distracting him from the draugr rising from its sarcophagus, it hadn’t caused him any harm.

Still, until he could find out exactly what he had absorbed, he didn’t want to tell anyone about it.

“It…” He felt his face flush hot with embarrassment. “Uh, it snuck up on me”

“A dusty, creaking, shambling, undead warrior snuck up on you? Are you deaf, boy?” Hod asked, though he was amused since Leto was clearly alright.

“I am after the magic roar it used to throw me into the water,” he grumbled.

The other three struggled to keep their faces straight. Ralof took pity on his friend as his face kept twitching in discomfort as his sister moved from cleaning the wound with a cloth to wringing water into it and handed over the bottle of mead he’d started before. Gerdur hummed thoughtfully, asking Hod to bring over one of the horn-candles.

After a thorough inspection, she was convinced the gash was clean. “I’m sorry, Leto, but this is going to have to be sewn shut.”

Leto gave a mournful groan. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Unless you have a potion?”

The young Nord slumped and drained half of his drink in one go. “Aye, I’ve got one… but I was hoping to save it for an emergency. My trip to the Barrow earned me some coin, but not enough to buy many healing potions. And I was planning on trying to scrape together enough for a cure disease potion. Just in case the bandits or the draugr or the skeever or that damned massive frost-bite spider had anything.”

“Spider?” Ralof almost squeaked.

Leto nodded. “Big one. _Really_ big one. As in all of the ones from Helgen put together.”

The Stormcloak shuddered violently and both his sister and brother-in-law made sounds of disgust. “I think buying a potion is a good idea, boy,” Hod said.

“Aye, I was going to after the bandit shot me through the arm. When I was younger I was shot with an arrow that turned out to be rusty. Infection nearly killed me. I didn’t want to do that again this time round.” He scowled as Gerdur started threading a needle that, to him, looked bigger than his damned sword. “And then after the draugr slashed my back open… well, that thing’s sword has been in its godsdamned sarcophagus with it while it rotted away for however many centuries. It was probably rusted and covered in gods-know what.”

Leto gave a pained gasp and gripped the back of the chair with white-knuckled force as the needle pierced his flesh for the first time.

“I thought you said you’d never been in combat before Helgen and the bandits,” Ralof said by way of distracting him. He could see a puckered scar on his shoulder, just below his collarbone that he hadn’t noticed before and he guessed it was from the old wound he’d mentioned.

Leto gave a dry chuckle. “Aye, I hadn’t. But when I was shot, that wasn’t a fight. All one-sided in their favour. Some mercenary thugs were passing through the village and grabbed by sister. They didn’t appreciate when I punched their leader in the face to get them off her.”

An agonisingly long amount of time later, Gerdur put the needle down and dabbed at the wound again with something that stung almost as bad as receiving the thing in the first place. Ralof had been wincing the entire time, empathy clear on his face; as a soldier fighting for Ulfric Stormcloak’s cause, he’d had his fair share of injuries that needed to be sewn shut.

Gerdur gently tapped Leto’s shoulder to get his attention and he glanced up at her with bleary eyes. During the process, he’d polished off two more bottles of mead but it had done nothing to numb the pain.

“Let me see your arm.”

Leto nodded and lowered the limb that he’d had resting on the chair-back. “I tried to clean it out with snow… but after being thrown into the cave stream it was probably pretty pointless.”

After cleaning it off and dabbing it with the same pungent-smelling liquid she’d used on his back she wrapped it in new bandages. The arrow had gone straight through and been pulled out cleanly, meaning that it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. She then ordered him to bathe as best he could and set about tidying up the healing supplies with the help of her husband. Ralof helped his young friend clean the dungeon grime off and then took the bandages his sister passed him and bound his ribs and back to protect the stitches and his bones from any more damage. He also did the same for the rest of his minor gashes and scrapes.

Mercifully his gear had survived the adventure intact and Leto had clean, dry clothes to put on. His hosts got him to recount the whole tale over more mead, until they were all slurring and laughing at the ridiculousness of what had happened and the young man’s flailing arms as he acted out the battles.

“But, Gerder, Hod, in all seriousness, how can you look at thing every day?” Leto finally asked. “The place is creepy enough, and everyone knows the stories about them old ruins.”

Ralof gestured wildly, his head nodding in agreement. “Aye, no wonder Frodnar has nightmares!”

Hod and Gurder both exchanged a glance and rolled their eyes. “The boy has nightmares when he eats too many sweets before bed, not because of the foolish stories his uncle tries to fill his head with,” the man said with a chuckle.

Leto leaned forward in his seat as far as his injuries allowed and tried to focus his eyes on the stocky miller. “But they’re not just stories are they? They’re real. I saw the draugr get up and start swinging their swords around. Their eyes glowed with dark magic.”

Ralof rubbed his upper arms as though he were cold and took a swig of his mead. Both he and Leto wore matching expressions of unease as their drunken minds recalled every horror story they’d ever heard about the walking dead and their tombs.

“What kind of magic makes those creatures anyway? Necromancy? I bet its mages. It _has_ to be mages,” Ralof murmured.

Leto nodded. “Only bloody mages would do something like desecrating the ancient tombs of heroes. I bet that godsdamned Farengar knew what he was sending me into, too.”

“Oh for Talos’ sake, the pair of you!” Gerdur gave an exasperated laugh. “It isn’t necromancers. Ralof, have you forgotten our grandmother’s stories?”

The Stormcloak folded his arms across his chest in a decidedly sulky gesture. “Grandpa always said she was making it up.”

Leto looked from one to the other, curious. “My ma was a priestess and she never mentioned about the draugr getting up and walking around. Actually, she told me the opposite; that the stories the older kids told me were made up.” _Though she also didn’t mention giant spiders or rock-dust showers,_ he added in his own head. _Or magical, mind-invading walls._

“Why do you think they’re called ‘bone-walkers’?” Hod asked.

The young Nord opened and closed his mouth a few times. He’d never really thought of that. He’d just assumed they’d gotten the name from the myths about them. Not because they actually could walk around. His mother had told both he and his sister that the dead did nothing but rest in their tombs, despite what every other child tried to tell them in order to make them do their chores for them.

“So what’d your grandma say about them?”

Gerdur smiled and sipped her mead, building the tension while her brother’s friend looked to her with wide-eyed curiosity. “Well, the legends say that the draugr were once mighty heroes, helping to free mankind from slavery to dragons.”

Leto shifted uncomfortably at that little piece of information. Given what was suddenly happening in the land, the first dragon being seen in possibly thousands of years – another creature that was supposed to be real only in children’s stories – discovering that the draugr fought against the beasts and were _also_ real was a little too unsettling for mere coincidence.

If Gerdur noticed his movement, she didn’t react. Instead, she kept speaking. “When these warriors and heroes died, their souls never moved on to Sovngarde. Instead, they remained behind in their rotting bodies, trapped for eternity. It is said that for their betrayal of their masters, the dragons cursed them to never truly die.”

The group fell into silence, the two younger Nords staring at her with their jaws hanging slack. Leto shook himself and downed the rest of his bottle. Well, there was another thing that never made it into his mother’s stories. Maybe she’d known but just decided not to share because she knew how her children would react.

“Thank you for that, Gerdur. Now I’ll never be able to sleep again.”

Despite those words, when Hod and his wife finally called it a night an hour or so later and Leto laid down on the furs they’d placed near the fireplace for him, he was asleep quickly. The pain of his injuries was pleasantly dulled by his skinful of alcohol. He barely managed to thank the millers for letting him stay with them again, his tongue was so weighed down with mead. As he started to drift off, he was aware of a warm, furry body pressing into his side and sluggishly reached out to scratch Stump behind the ears.

*

Morning came far too quickly for Leto’s liking. He felt as though he’d no sooner closed his eyes than he was being awoken by the excited chattering of Frodnar. Apparently the boy was pleased to see ‘his’ new friend back with them, but was disappointed that no one had woken him when he’d arrived the night before. Someone must have told the boy that he was injured, because the second he saw him awake, Frodnar bombarded him with questions about what ‘epic battles’ he’d faced since they’d seen him last.

Gerdur grabbed her son by the upper arm and pushed him back into his seat at the dining table. “Divines’ sake, child, let the poor man wake up first.”

Leto gave a tired smile, quickly followed by a yawn, and dragged himself to his feet. “It’s alright Gerdur. And Frodnar, in terms of my battles, all I have to say is stay away from ancient burial sites. Seriously. Don’t go into one.”

The boy’s eyes widened in wonder. “Did you meet real-live draugr? How many were there? Are they just like the stories say?”

The still-exhausted – and, he realised with a small degree of shame, slightly hung-over – Nord slumped into a seat beside Ralof. “Aside from the ‘live’ part, aye, I came across draugr. And they are exactly like the stories.” He traded a glance with the Stormcloak. “Though a lot of them miss out a few details.”

The excited boy’s barrage of questions continued all though breakfast, leaving his parents exasperated and the child himself almost hoarse. After everyone had finished eating, he bolted for the door, saying that he had to tell his friend everything that he had learned. He barely even remembered to call the dog out with him before he disappeared.

Hod and Gerdur offered their hospitality for a few more days, and while Leto appreciated it, he said he needed to get back to Whiterun. He had a mage to throttle - or maybe bash over the head with the tablet he’d been sent for – for failing to warn him of what he’d be facing in the Barrow. Ralof looked disappointed. Only a few days into hiding and recuperating and he was already feeling trapped inside the walls of his sister’s house. Having some company that could keep him from the mind-numbing boredom of staring at the same four walls would have been appreciated. He was itching to return to Windhelm, but apparently soldiers had come through the day prior and he was too worried he’d be intercepted again on his way. After narrowly escaping the headsman’s axe, he didn’t fancy being sent straight back for them to finish the job without interruption.

Gerdur redressed his wounds, not needing to give him further instructions, as his mother’s strict teachings had drummed the knowledge into Leto long ago. He thanked them all for their hospitality, saying he hoped he could return to visit soon and do something to repay the kindness they’d shown him.

Much as he’d expected, Ralof tried to suggest he join the rebellion again. He was a little more subtle this time, saying that if he couldn’t visit Riverwood in time, then he could be found in Windhelm… possibly in the Palace of Kings… where Ulfric Stormcloak and his general were.

Trying to ignore all his aches and pains, Leto made his way toward the Riverwood Trader. As soon as Camilla saw him, she beamed and rushed over, leaving the same Nordic bard Leto had insulted by snoring through his performance scowling at him again as she abandoned him, mid-sentence.

“Leto! You’re back! Do you have the claw?”

Trying to ignore the twin holes boring into his skull and likely trying to will him to die in agony, Leto looked away from the musician to smile at Camilla. Her hand touched the fur trimming of his armour as it had the day he’d first met her and he suddenly remembered that the woman made him uncomfortable. Incredibly so.

“Aye, I do.”

The Imperial woman gave a relieved sigh. “Oh, thank you so much! Now maybe my brother will finally stop being a walking thunder-cloud.”

She ushered him into the shop and before the young Nord got the chance to even open his mouth, Camilla was reporting his success to her brother, grinning from ear to ear. Leto reached into his knapsack and pulled out the golden trinket, handing it over to the wide-eyed and happy Lucan who looked as though he’d been reunited with an old friend.

“You found it?” he laughed, running his fingers over the decorative planes of the ornament. “There it is. Strange… it seems smaller than I remember. Funny thing, huh?”

Leto simply cocked an eyebrow. The object that turned out to actually be an ancient key to a puzzle door wasn’t something he’d describe as small. And it was made of solid gold, which, if anything, made the size of the claw even more impressive. After everything he went through to recover the damned thing for Lucan, he’d been hoping for something a little more… well, he’d been hoping for a better reaction than thinking his prized ornament had shrunk. It was easily the length of the Imperial’s torso, for Stendarr’s sake!

The shopkeeper must have seen the scepticism on the young Nord’s face, because his expression quickly brightened again and he gently – almost reverently – placed the claw on the end of the bench he stood behind. “I’m going to put this back where it belongs.” After giving it a few swipes with a cloth to wipe away imaginary marks, Lucan turned back to him. “I’ll never forget this. You’ve done a great thing for me and my sister.”

The Imperial handed over a bag of coins – the promised payment that he’d gotten from his last shipment – thanking Leto again and saying that he hoped retrieving the claw hadn’t been too much trouble. Leto just snorted and told Lucan that he wouldn’t have to worry about those particular thieves again and left it at that.

He was turning to leave when he felt warm hands against his biceps, fingers curling into the fur beneath his pauldrons. He stiffened and wondered if it would be impolite to make a break for the door and run all the way to Whiterun without looking back.

“It means so much to us to have the claw back where it belongs. Thank you!” Camilla’s voice was little more than a purr.

Leto gulped and glanced almost desperately at her brother for help as his face burned hot. Lucan’s expression had darkened and he was alternating between glaring at the young Nord and his sister. For the first time, Leto took notice of the sword across the counter right in front of the shopkeeper and he wondered if the smaller man knew how to use it.

As Camilla was taking notice of the bandage wrapped around Leto’s upper arm and looking as though she was about to start cooing sympathy, he reached up and pried her hands away. Before she could latch back on, he took a huge step back.

“Uh… thank you for the payment, but I have to go. I need to get back to Whiterun. Look after yourselves.”

As he fumbled for the door handle, not willing to take his eyes off the Imperial siblings lest one pounce on him or the other try to drive the iron sword through his back, Camilla gave a disappointed pout and flicked a stray lock of hair away from her face.

“You’re a strapping young man. Don’t be a stranger.”

If he hadn’t managed to finally wrench the door open at that point, Leto would have simply crashed through it, that much he was certain of. He was out of the shop and moving toward the bridge out of the village faster than a man his size and with his injuries should have been capable.

Even half-way down the street he could hear the argument that erupted between the siblings. As Leto had suspected from his brief interactions with her, Camilla seemed to be… _friendly_ with any man she met and Lucan was growing tired of it. But her defence was that she just wanted to find a good husband and start a family of her own, and that she wasn’t going to achieve that if she didn’t make it clear she was available.

The shouted words simply spurred Leto to move faster. Inside his own head, he grumbled that the woman should just wear an amulet of Mara if she wanted people to know she was available. He also made a mental note to avoid Riverwood at all costs for the rest of his life.

The walk back to Whiterun was mercifully uneventful. He slowed his pace to admire the view, filled with colours and insects that he’d never seen before his first walk down the road. Thankfully there was no giant his time to distract him. Soon the weather would be turning and the landscape would be muted with the stark white of snowfall, but for now, Leto was able to enjoy the reds and oranges of the shedding trees and the stubborn greens of those that stayed lush no matter the season. The smells of the meadery grew stronger as he approached and he considered stopping in to investigate the discovery of the place he hadn’t noticed before, thanks to the giant in the crops of the farm next door.

 _Later_ , he decided. It was still early in the day and not only did he have a heavy slab of rock to deliver to the court wizard, but he had armour to repair and a blacksmith to keep proving his skills to. He realised he also had the bits and pieces he’d looted off the bandit corpses to sell, since he’d entirely forgotten thanks to Camilla’s flirtatious petting.

Leto gave a sigh as he walked past the stables outside the city. As soon as he delivered this tablet, he’d be free to focus on restoring some kind of normalcy to his life. But the fast pace of the past few days had also been helping distract him from the reason he needed to start anew. How would he cope when he only had the instructions of a blacksmith to focus on, rather than having his head full with worrying about delving into tombs? He’d vowed to himself before leaving Riverwood that he’d live on in a way that made his family proud, not letting himself fall into the darkness of despair at their loss… but that was easier vowed than upheld.

He shook his head and forced his mind away from the memory of seeing his father lying dead in blood-stained snow, reminding himself that he had plenty yet to keep his focus away from the pain. For starters, he had his own injuries to think about. Blacksmithing with a sewn-up back was going to be interesting.

The guards at the gate opened it for him, this time without the warning that they were keeping an eye on him. He gave a wave to Adrianne who seemed glad of his return, but shook her head when she saw the condition of his armour and the way he walked with obvious signs of pain. He told her he’d be back as soon as he was finished at Dragonsreach and she told him to take his time.

When Leto reached the merchant circle, he glanced up toward the Jarl’s palace and was reminded of the massive staircase he was going to have to traverse. He scowled, then decided to procrastinate by selling his trinkets and seeing if he had enough to buy a disease curing potion. He didn’t feel like he was sick, aside from the almost constant and maddening itch of the skin of his back, but it was better safe than sorry.

He pulled a face at the sourness of the potion as he drank it right there in the alchemist’s shop. He handed back the empty vial so she could reuse it, then began trudging up toward Dragonsreach. Once at the top, he paused to catch his breath. As had happened the first time, the guards milling around chuckled as he swiped the sweat off his face and grumbled about there being far too many damned steps. Every bruise and cut was aching fiercely and he found himself limping as he made it to the massive doors.

Inside he didn’t allow himself to be distracted by the view. He wanted to just give the Dragonstone to Farengar and find a chair to collapse into until he felt like he could handle the journey back down to the city. Maybe he should have bought a stamina potion while he was in Arcadia’s. He had enough coin.

The heavy accent of the wizard told Leto he was in his laboratory, and that he also wasn’t alone. A woman was bent over his desk, examining a book that seemed to have the mage excited. Leto tried to get a good look at her, but she had a leather hood pulled low over her face, and even when she glanced up at the young Nord she seemed determined to keep her identity hidden.

Farengar was still speaking to her, oblivious or simply ignoring Leto walking toward his desk and reaching into his knapsack.

“You have a visitor,” the woman interrupted.

“Hmm?” The wizard turned around and his frown turned into something like an impressed smile. “Ah, yes, the Jarl’s protégé! Back from Bleak Falls Barrow? You didn’t die, it seems.”

Leto scowled and shoved the stone tablet he’d been sent to retrieve into the mage’s outstretched hands. He felt a little satisfaction when the mage grunted and his arms drooped at the sudden and unexpected weight.

“No, I didn’t die. You could have warned be about the gods damned _draugr_ though.”

Farengar waved his anger away dismissively. “It’s an ancient burial site. Of course there were going to be a few draugr.”

A thousand things jumped up into Leto’s mind that he wanted to say – not the least of which was how he had actually asked the wizard before leaving if there was anything he should know about the Barrow – but he managed to clamp his jaw shut around them before they could come flying out. Farengar was either once more oblivious or ignoring the way the young Nord’s eye was twitching in frustration as he studied the tablet in his hands.

“Ah! The Dragonstone. Seems you are a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way. My…” He glanced at the leather armour-clad woman who was peering curiously at the tablet. “… associate here will be pleased to see your handiwork. She discovered its location, by means she has so far declined to share with me.”

As he turned toward the woman and sat the Dragonstone gently on the table in front of her, Leto wondered why she couldn’t have gone to retrieve the damned thing herself if she had been the one to discover its whereabouts. The sword at her hip was of good make and suggested she could handle herself much better than Leto could, despite her being half his size.

He was drawn out of his internal grumbling when the court wizard gave a small chuckle. “So your information was correct after all. And we have our friend here to thank for recovering it for us.”

For the first time, Leto got a decent glimpse of her face when she looked up at him, light-blue eyes wide with surprise and studying him. “Nice work.”

Despite himself, Leto gave a small nod of his head. “Thank you, ma’am. But next time, would you mind getting it yourself?” The woman laughed and the wizard stared at him in shock for his audacity.

Before he could recover, she straightened up and clapped Farengar lightly on the shoulder. “Just send me a copy when you’ve deciphered it. I should be going now.”

“What? Oh. Yes, of course,” Farengar muttered to her as she started toward the door. “One of these days you must tell me where you get your information. Perhaps I can meet your employers?”

“Continue your work, Farengar,” the mysterious woman called over her shoulder dismissively, striding toward the doors of the palace.

Leto watched her move, curious as to who she was. When the wizard had mentioned ‘reliable sources’ that had told him where to find the Dragonstone, he had assumed he’d been talking about ancient tomes or other mages… not a short woman who liked to keep her face hidden. By the way she walked, Leto could tell she had combat training – and a lot of it. But she also moved with near silence and grace, something that he would have thought only a thief would have. Or maybe a high elf; he’d heard they were graceful creatures but had yet to see one for long enough to know himself. The only thing he knew for certain was that she was a human, not an elf. Her skin had been too fair and her build all wrong to be any of the mer races.

By the time the strange woman was out of sight, Farengar had turned his focus onto the Dragonstone and forgotten that Leto was still standing in his laboratory. The young Nord considered interrupting him and asking if that was all that was needed of him, then realised that he didn’t want to in case the wizard expected him to go into some undead-infested tomb again.

As he started to cautiously back out of the room, he heard someone running toward them. The footfalls were light but clearly hurried. Leto glanced toward the sound and saw Irileth skidding to a halt, gripping the doorframe to steady herself.

“Farengar!”

The wizard glanced up, clearly irritated at being interrupted. Before he could comment on it, however, the Dunmeri housecarl raised a hand to silence him, a look on her face that said he’d better keep quite or else.

“Farengar, you need to come at once. A dragon’s been sighted nearby.”

The grin that split the mage’s face was almost enough to have Leto groan in despair. If only the man had seen first-hand what those beasts were capable of, he wouldn’t be looking so thrilled.

Apparently realising that he was still present, Irileth fixed the young Nord with a no-arguments look. “You should come too.”

Trailing behind the pair as they made their way upstairs to war room, Leto couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread settling in his gut. Stendarr’s mercy, what could the Jarl and his court want from him now? The mage and housecarl were oblivious as they hurried; Farengar babbling excitedly and the Dunmer chastising him for not taking the situation seriously enough. The guards stationed by the Jarl’s throne were shifting nervously, as though they knew something strange was going on but had no idea what exactly it was.

Leto couldn’t help but feel he was being led to his doom. The short walk up to where the Jarl stood, handing a drink to an exhausted guard who had slumped down on a cabinet beside the wall, felt remarkably similar to his carriage ride into Helgen to meet the headsman’s axe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying Leto's adventure so far. Soon the real adventure will begin. 
> 
> Just a wee bit of a warning though, i won't be immediately delving straight into the Dragonborn aspects of his story. That will come a little later on. I don't want to ruin anything, but there will be plenty of adventures, just not central to his dragon soul. I hope that's not misleading.
> 
> I've noticed that I've made a few mistakes in previous chapters and i'll be going back over to fix those up soon. Sorry about that.
> 
> Thank you to all of you who are reading my story, it's the first one i've ever shared and it makes me feel so grateful and flattered that there are people reading it (and hopefully enjoying it).
> 
> The next chapter shouldn't be too far away.
> 
> Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think, even if it's criticism. :) i really appreciate all of your reading this.


	12. The Meaning of Fus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A favour leads to another favour... and an unexpected discovery.

This was insanity. Leto decided that he must have been touched by Sheogorath, the Daedric Prince of madness, at some point. Maybe the blow he’d received to the head when the bandits had destroyed his village had knocked something loose in his brain. It was the only possible explanation as to why he was following the small army of guards, led by Jarl Balgruuf’s housecarl, toward the pillar of smoke in the distance.

Irileth had given a rousing speech near the gates of Whiterun, an audience of curious shopkeepers and stall owners who had abandoned their posts milling around to try and find out what was going on. Adrianne had caught Leto’s eye and given him a questioning look. All he’d been able to do was grimace and shrug helplessly. If he survived this next battle, he’d work extra hard in apology for not returning when he said he would. Some apprentice he was making.

Irileth had convinced the guards that they could destroy this creature and end the looming dragon threat before it could even really get started. But Leto wasn’t so sure. He had seen what the beast had done to Helgen. If fully trained Imperial soldiers couldn’t best the scaly horror, then how could a gaggle of lightly armoured city guards – who had probably seen nothing more terrible than a drunken brawl in their whole careers – a tiny little Dunmer who seemed to compensate for her size with her fiery spirit and mouth, and a young Nord wearing the heaviest armour of the lot but who couldn’t even swing a sword properly – not to mention who was still healing from his trek into Bleak Falls Barrow – manage it?

But when Balgruuf had turned to him after hearing the report of the dragon from the guard stationed at the watchtower he had looked so… oh gods, what was the right word? Desperate? Imploring? He’d been worried for the safety of his people and yet he knew he couldn’t don armour and charge into battle himself, no matter how much he wanted to. He had to tend to his people, keep them calm if word got around about a dragon so close to the city. He had to sure up defences and ready the guards that weren’t going to the tower.

And he had called Leto ‘friend’. A Jarl, a man who ruled over an entire Hold, had called a homeless young man whose sole goal in life at the moment was to make sure he didn’t screw up impressing the local blacksmith and chop wood for the innkeeper his friend.

How could Leto have said no that that?

He remembered the Jarl placing his hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye as he once more asked for the young Nord’s help and said, ‘you survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here’.

Leto had grimaced at those words and tried to find some humour in the truth. “As much as it hurts my Nordic pride to admit it, Jarl, my experience that you’re wanting to rely on was running away before I got eaten or crushed.”

Balgruuf had laughed, but anguish was still present in his blue eyes.

And now there he was, dropping to a crouch beside Irileth as the small army surveyed the smoking ruins a hundred yards away from behind a boulder.

“No signs of any dragon right now, but it sure looks like he’s been here.” The Dunmer turned to the group, hardening her face and squaring her shoulders. “I know it looks bad, but we’ve got to figure out what happened. And if that dragon is still skulking around somewhere.”

Leto kept to himself that ‘skulking’ was something he didn’t think a dragon was capable of. From what he recalled of Helgen, the beast had had a deadly kind of grace to it… but nothing so stealthy as to be able to stalk them in broad daylight without them being able to see it. And subtlety hadn’t really been its style.

“Spread out and look for survivors,” Irileth ordered. “We need to know what we’re dealing with.”

Leto heard one of the guards murmur ‘death on wings?’ and gave her a grin. At least someone had a sense of humour, dark as it may be. It reminded him a little of Ralof and made the scene of horror they were sure to encounter a little more bearable.

The army of a dozen spread out and made their way cautiously toward the smoking watchtower. The stone walls were charred and the surrounding ground was singed, a few spot-fires still burning in the long grass and shrubs. Patches of dirt had been almost crystallised with the searing heat of dragon fire. Leto swallowed the growing queasiness in his gut as the smell of burning sent his mind reeling back to Helgen and his own home. He shoved the memories away; he had a job to do. He could freak out and vomit later.

There was a crumbling stone ramp that led to the interior of what was left of the tower. Leto scrambled up it, remembering how upon his first close encounter with the dragon at Helgen, the beast had slammed its head through the wall, like a nightmare inducing game of peek-a-boo, to try and cook everyone inside. Guards could be trapped under rubble or, worse, stranded at the very top with no way to get out of the open.

He saw a Nord in the blood- and soot-stained uniform of a Whiterun guard, minus the helm, peer out from the archway where a door may have once been attached. His eyes flew wide when he saw Leto running toward him.

“No! Get back!” he cried. “It’s still here somewhere! Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it!”

The younger Nord could see him trembling. He recognised the unbridled terror on his face, remembered seeing it on so many others at the doomed town where the Imperials were supposed to execute the leader of the Stormcloak rebellion. And he remembered wearing one himself as the beast called flaming boulders from nothingness to rain down on the helpless mortals below… recalled the way the skin of his temples was pulled taught, his throat too tight for any screams to escape and his heart hammered in his chest like it wanted to break free and find its own way out of the horror.

The voice of the Dunmer housecarl behind him drew them both from their fear as she demanded a report and asked where the dragon was now.

The guard shook his head, sweaty hair sticking to his face. “I don’t know!”

No sooner had the cry left his mouth than a roar tore through the air. Everyone’s head snapped toward the sound. Before panic could set in and her small army wet themselves at the massive beast hurtling toward them, faster than any horse, Irileth drew her sword and summoned magic into her other hand.

“Here he comes! Find cover and make every arrow count!”

Everyone scurried to obey her command. Leto and the guard ducked back into the tower’s entrance, drawing their bows and watching the dragon circle around them, waiting for a clear line of fire. The guards still outside loosed arrows. All of them missed.

The beast let out a repetitive staccato sound that sent shivers up Leto’s spine. The rumbling noise was disturbingly like laughter. It flared its wings to slow down, then aimed its face at the group of Nords trying to take shelter under a pile of crumbled stone that looked like it was once some kind of balcony attached to the tower. As more arrows whistled past it, the beast opened its mouth and unleashed a gout of flame. The guards cried out and scattered like startled deer, two of them dropping their bows in their panic.

More laughter that vibrated the air itself like thunder came from the dragon’s smoking maw as it watched in amusement. “I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide!”

Time seemed to freeze. Leto heard one of the guards choke out an exclamation of sheer terror that the dragon was _speaking_. And not only that, it was doing so in the common tongue! For a moment the great scaly beast simply basked in the wide-eyed and slack-jawed stares of dread of the tiny creatures below, before a bolt of lightning arced out from the foot of the crumbled stone ramp and struck it in the snout.

Irileth sent another blazing line of electricity toward the dragon as it flapped its massive leathery wings and gained altitude, snarling for everyone to pull themselves together. At the small woman’s display of ferocity – enough to put every Nord around her to shame – the guards and Leto managed to locate their own will to fight. While the dragon wheeled around the tower once more, everyone raised their bows, moving out from under whatever cover they’d found to try and get a clear shot.

Leto reached back to his quiver. The beast was still moving, but it was also taunting the mortals below it that seemed to think they were a match for its fiery breath. If he could nock an arrow and just wait for it to land or hover as it had a moment ago…

When his fingers met with nothing but air and then his own armoured back, he felt his heart stop. He clawed desperately at the empty space where feathers and shafts should have been before reality sank in. He was out of arrows. He’d used up the last of them making his way back to Riverwood.

The dragon was slowing down, its circles becoming tighter and lower. It was going to land. Leto turned to the guard who had been with him in the tower. “Do you have more arrows?”

The man didn’t take his eyes off the dragon, trying to keep his arm steady and wait for the perfect shot. “Just inside the tower, on a table.”

Leto darted inside and snagged the quiver. He didn’t even bother removing his own empty one, just threw the new one over his shoulder. As he was re-emerging from the doorway, the tower shook and he staggered as a massive weight slammed into the ground.

The dragon had landed. Its maw opened up in a shriek of flames, sending the closest guards scattering like leaves in the wind to avoid immolation. Leto snatched an arrow from his new supply and nocked it, taking aim for the dull grey-green scales of its neck.

It wasn’t until the arrow pinged harmlessly off its armour-like skin that realisation dawned on him. A whole new terror gripped his gut and his eyes widened. Grey-green scales… the dragon of Helgen had been as black as midnight, its scales glistening in the fires it had created like ebony in a forge.

This was a new dragon.

Furthermore, now that he was thinking about it, this beast was smaller than the black dragon that had saved him from the headsman’s axe… not that size really mattered considering it was still large enough to make him feel like a rabbit facing down a bear.

With renewed vigour, Leto kept firing his bow, drawing the string back as far as he could and feeling it cutting into the pads of his fingers. Suddenly Farengar’s words – talking about dragons, plural – made sense. Had he somehow known that there was more than one of these creatures in Skyrim’s skies? How many of the beasts had been seen? And how long ago had they truly reappeared?

When the dragon roared and snapped its jaws toward Irileth who was throwing bolts of lightning at its face, Leto decided to bother with those thoughts later. He loosed another arrow and this time managed to make this one stick. More annoyed than pained, the beast flapped its leathery wing to try and dislodged the projectile poking through it.

Most of the guards had abandoned their bows in favour of charging in to hack at the massive beast with their melee weapons. Arrows seemed to mostly bounce of its hide harmlessly, but the sharp edges of swords and axes were able to cleave in between scales the size of a Nord’s hand to find the flesh beneath.

The men and women of Whiterun’s guard had managed to find positions that made it impossible for the dragon to attack them with either its jaws or its wildly lashing tail. When its blood was pooling on the ground and turning the disturbed dirt into slippery mud, it seemed to have had enough. It flared its wings, knocking two guards onto their backs, and tried to take flight. But another line of electricity from Irileth’s hand had it shrieking in agony as its muscles spasmed, keeping it grounded.

 _Okay_ , Leto decided, _maybe magic does have some uses after all_. But he’d never admit it aloud. And only in the specific scenario of fighting against a living myth could he see the benefits of spell-casting.

Knowing that it wouldn’t be allowed its advantage of air, the dragon started scuttling backward, forcing the guards to leap out of the way or be trampled. It opened its mouth and unleashed another gout of flame, filling the air with the acrid stench of singed armour, baked earth and over-heated copper where the fire had almost crystallised the blood-soaked dirt. Leto was forced to sidestep down the stone ramp to keep the beast in sight, firing arrows as fast as he could.

With the battle being forcibly moved, the guards were losing their advantage of keeping in the dragon’s blind spots and the archers were losing their clear shots. Leto paused his barrage of poorly aimed arrows to search for a better location that he could run to without being burned to a crisp or eaten. He abruptly snapped his head back toward the melee when he heard a chorus of shouts and caught the movement of flying bodies out of the corner of his eye.

The dragon had swung its head, using the long line of its neck to knock away the guards trying to hack away at its face. The only one left close was Irileth; on her knees before the opening jaws of the beast, her sword fallen to the ground out of reach. She seemed as though she may be dazed and Leto could see blood that almost matched her hair and warpaint covering one half of her face. With a curse, the Nord dropped his bow and leapt over the edge of the stone ramp. He didn’t want to watch anyone else die at the mercy of a dragon; so far this battle had only had wounds and no fatalities – at least since they’d turned up. He planned to keep it that way.

The other guards could only watch helplessly, those knocked aside trying to scramble to their feet and the archers firing arrows as the dragon lunged forward to close its jaws around the housecarl. Just before its teeth could slam shut on the vulnerable Dunmer, Leto dove forward, wrapping an arm around the woman and dragging her aside.

A searing pain pierced his leg and he screamed. Irileth’s eyes widened and she seemed to catch up on what had happened. As the young Nord was lifted away from her, she scrabbled for her sword.

The guards gave a horrified cry, knowing that there wasn’t much they could do without accidentally hitting Leto, which was quickly followed by a loud cheer as the young Nord tore his blade from its sheath and drove it into the dragon’s nostril. With a snarl the he wrenched his sword to the side, slicing the cavity open.

As the dragon roared in pain, Leto was thrown to ground to land in an undignified heap. He heard someone drop down to their knees beside him and glanced up.

“That was very brave, and very foolish,” Irileth said. “Thank you.”

Leto simply nodded. He glanced down at his leg, wondering if it was still attached and winced at the sight. His greaves had several round punctures in the thigh and blood was seeping from them at an alarming rate. The strange thing was though, he couldn’t feel the pain anymore. The housecarl seemed to be examining his wounds too and pressed both her hands to his leg. If he’d been in any condition to, he would have felt embarrassed that her small but strong palms were gripping his thigh.

“Hold still.”

Leto gave her a smirk. “Not going to be a problem, ma’am. I don’t think I’ll be moving any – huh?”

He stopped short and his eyes widened as he saw a golden glow spreading from her hands and over his wounds. A warmth seeped into his body, accompanied by an intense itching sensation that made him have to fight the urge to tear off his armour and scratch his leg.

After a few moments, the Dunmer drew her hands back, sweat glistening on her forhead. “That’s the best I can do. It should stop you from bleeding out.”

“Thank you,” Leto murmured, stunned by the fact that she had just healed him rather than continued the battle.

Now he had two reasons to think that magic had its uses.

As quickly as the thought crossed his mind, it was taken away by hearing a roar. _Oh, right… the dragon_. While Irileth sprang gracefully to her feet, Leto took a lot longer and was decidedly more lumbering. He tested his leg and was amazed that putting weight on it only sent a dull ache spreading through the limb.

As he charged back into battle, he noticed that some of the guards that had been sent flying hadn’t gotten back up. It sent a twinge of fear down the young Nord’s spine, but he knew there was nothing that could be done about it now. Some of them, at least, were groaning and clutching at various pains, so they were at least still alive, if unable to rise yet.

The archers had moved positions and arrows once more rained down onto the wounded dragon while it snarled and thrashed. Blood ran in rivulets down its face and every huff and motion of its head sprayed its attackers with warm, dark crimson.

It was tiring quickly now, multiple gashes in its scales. Its weakness was spurring on the Nords and Dunmer, their battle-cries growing louder the more they slashed. Knowing that its death was soon to come, the dragon gave one last desperate attempt to take wing. As it flared the leathery membranes, guards on either side sliced through them, shredding them and rendering them useless.

A roar of despair echoed across the plains and as its head bowed to gulp in another breath to unleash fire, Leto took advantage and slashed his sword across its snout.

The beast’s eyes grew wide as it saw the young Nord, truly noticing him for the first time. There was a definite glimmer of terror. “Dovahkiin? _No_!”

Leto stared into the massive, slitted orb closest to him, seeing it trembling in its socket as it stared at him like _he_ was the monster. In its final seconds of life, the dragon tried to scurry away from him, fumbling claws carving furrows into the hard earth.

All Leto could do was stare at the magnificent, beautiful, _terrifying_ creature as its body slackened and its head slumped the ground with a resounding thump he felt just as clearly as he heard. That golden eye was still trained on him and he couldn’t understand why. Why was it looking at _him_ like that? He’d been barely more than useless in the battle. If the beast should fear anyone, it should be Irileth and her lightning. He’d been picked up and nearly had his leg bitten off, he was hardly something to be feared.

And what had it said? Maybe it had simply been staring at him because he was the closest to its face… no, it had been speaking to _him_. It had tried to get away from _him_. And that just didn’t make any sense whatsoever.

Oblivious to what he was thinking, the Whiterun guards stood around the giant corpse, weapons still raised and searching for the slightest twitch to indicate the dragon was still alive. After a few seconds, they all relaxed and an exhausted cheer of triumph rang out.

Slouching and resting his hands on his knees, Leto just grinned. His breath was coming in ragged gasps and his wounds – both the new one that Irileth and partially healed and the ones he’d already had before charging into battle – ached furiously… but he was _alive_. In fact, after a quick glance around, he realised that everyone who had come to the watchtower was alive. Those that he had feared might not be had hauled themselves to their feet to make their way over, even if they had to lean on their less injured comrades for support.

The dragon at Helgen had seemed invincible, burning everything and everyone in its path as it rained down massive, flaming boulders onto the town. But this one was dead. The dragons could be killed. And that was comforting knowing as he did now that there was more than one.

“Look at that!” a guard gasped, snapping Leto’s attention back to the dead dragon.

Its body was convulsing, a hot glow starting to burn beneath its scales.

“Everybody get back!” Irileth shouted.

The whole group staggered away as the dragon erupted into flames. Its scales flaked and curled like paper thrown into a hearth, but the fire had no heat to it. The gasps of all present were drowned out by a roaring wind, and a blinding light exploded from the now-skeleton of the dragon. Leto gave a cry of shock and flung his arms up to protect his face as golden tendrils spiralled toward him. His voice choked out and his arms dropped limply to his sides as the strange light-energy poured into his skin and images raced across his mind. Magical wind whipped his hair around his face viciously and his eyes were wide but unseeing

He didn’t even notice as he sank to his knees, jaw hanging slack. As suddenly as it had started, everything stopped. The wind fell still and silent, and the reaching, golden tendrils of magic finished forcing their way inside him, leaving the young Nord glowing as though he’d swallowed a thousand torch bugs.

Leto’s eyes rolled back into his head and the only thing that stopped him collapsing face-first into the ground was the guard beside him, grasping his shoulder.

Around him, people were speaking to him but he was oblivious. He was lost in the visions swarming across his mind’s eye, almost too fast to make sense of.

_He was flying, the shadow of his massive wings darkening the plains below and sending deer darting to try and find cover. The skies were filled with his kin, others were perched atop curved walls where masked men knelt before them in worship. Mortals shuddered at the mere sight of him, bowing their heads in reverence like the inferior beasts that they were. They knew to fear and respect their masters._

_Then he was in battle. The skies were dark and choked with smoke. Below the tiny forms of mortals crawled like insects, shooting their pathetic slivers of wood into the sky in the hopes of hitting one of his kin._

_Blood, battle, being hunted._

_The freedom of the skies. Feeling the sun warming his wings as he soared lazily through the clouds._

_The cold jaws of death closing around him._

_Then a voice, calling his name…_

_Mirmulnir rises again!_

Leto gasped and pulled away from those images with as much strength as he could muster. But his effort threw him in another direction. He once again saw the glowing runes on the curved wall in Bleak Falls Barrow, felt them plunging into his mind like this magic from the dragon had just done.

 _Fus,_ he heard inside his head, as though someone were speaking to him.

And suddenly he knew what the word meant. It was as though a realisation had dawned on him and he understood the word in a way that made him feel as though he’d been taken from darkness and into warm sunlight. Fus meant Force. A curtain of ignorance had been pulled back and true knowledge had flooded in. He’d thought it had meant ‘push’… but that was only one tiny aspect of the true meaning of Fus… Force… his very soul understood the Word like his heart knew to beat, or his lungs knew to draw breath.

_As you push the world, so does the world push back. Think of the way force may be applied effortlessly. Imagine but a whisper pushing aside all in its path. When an object obstructs your way, force is what removes it. It may be a gentle nudge, or it may be a devastating blow._

Leto blinked and sucked in desperate gulps of air. He stared at the face in front of him; a guardsman, bloodied and dirty, wearing a leather helmet and holding him upright. The young Nord realised that he had his fist clenched in the man’s cuirass and managed to pry open his white-knuckled grip.

He felt a dozen sets of eyes on him and looked around. The guards from both Whiterun and those who remained of the western watchtower were all staring at him in awe and wonder. He staggered to his feet, feeling his face flush. Apparently he’d been the only one who had been affected by the magic from the dragon’s burning corpse. Though with the way his luck had been recently, he knew he shouldn’t be surprised.

“I can’t believe it!” the guard in the leather helmet murmured. “You’re… Dragonborn…”

For a moment, the young Nord’s mind supplied him with images of his mother when she’d been in a foul temper. He had admit, there were certain similarities to the roars of the scaly beasts and what she had been able to produce. It wasn’t too much of a strain on his imagination to see her breathing fire. She could certainly cuff his ears with a surprising amount of strength given her much smaller stature. He almost winced as he imagined her reaction at being compared to a dragon…

When the word was rapidly repeated around the gathering of guards, Leto found himself wishing the dragon had swallowed him whole. Dibella’s tits, the guard hadn’t been joking. And that word was being whispered in hushed tones of reverence… all directed at him. He had heard stories about various people who held the soul of a dragon in their mortal bodies; growing up with a priestess for a mother, worshipping every god the Nords had ever praised and feared, it was impossible not know of them. Ysmir, or Talos as most called him now, was given his godhood because of his deeds as Dragonborn. Another had been engulfed by the flames of his power to be transformed into something akin to a god to end the Oblivion Crisis.

Leto shook his head in denial, throat so constricted he couldn’t speak. Any humour he may have found in imaging having a dragon parent was gone. His legs were trembling and he thought they might give way at any moment. But the guard who’d called him a legend wasn’t paying any attention. He was rambling on about the Dragonborns stealing the power of the winged beasts whenever they were slain.

“That’s what you did, isn’t it? Absorbed the dragon’s power?”

“I… I don’t know,” Leto choked out.

He didn’t feel any more powerful. If anything he felt worse than after he had escaped Helgen. His heart was hammering so hard inside his ribcage he thought it might burst out. But there were very few explanations as to how he was the only one that the golden light from the dragon – no, Mirmulnir was his name – force itself into his body, when the others had been standing just as close. He had learned the meaning of the glowing word on the wall from the Barrow that had also reached out to his mind. And he had learned the dragon’s name… seen impossible things that could only have been his memories...

“There’s only one way to find out,” the guard said. “Try to Shout… that would prove it. According to the old legends, only the Dragonborn can Shout without training, the way the dragons do.”

Shouting… that was what the dragons had done, here at the watchtower and back in Helgen. The words Leto had sworn he could hear as fire erupted from their maws or flaming stones fell from the sky… were exactly that. Words of Power.

But how in Oblivion could he know that all of a sudden? And how did the damned guard?

Leto gulped and glanced around at all of faces staring at him expectantly. Before he could decide whether to attempt to speak the word _fus_ or simply run away, one of the archers, whose face was covered by his masked helm held up a hand.

“Wait, Dragonborn? Absorbing power? What are you talking about? I never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons.”

Another guard smacked her hand up the back of his head, knocking his helm askew and no doubt half-deafening him with the resounding clang. “There weren’t any dragons then, idiot,” she snapped. “They’re just coming back now for the first time in… forever.”

As the two began to bicker, the guard in the leather helmet turned to the Dunmer who was watching the scene with a sceptical eyebrow cocked. “What do you say, Irileth? You’re being awfully quiet.”

Leto turned to her and gave her a pleading look, as though she could make all of the insanity and confusion stop. Well, maybe she could; she could at least order the guards to shut up and leave him alone.

“Hmph.” She gave a dry chuckle. “Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums on matters you know nothing about.” She waved a hand at the huge skeleton. “Here’s a dead dragon, and that’s something I definitely understand. Now we know we can kill them.” Her crimson eyes focussed on Leto and he thought he saw something like respect in them. “I don’t need some mythical Dragonborn. Someone who can down a dragon is more than enough for me.”

She’d clearly understood his imploring gaze and could obviously see the young Nord was feeling uncomfortable with the sudden attention and wild theory he found himself the centre of. Leto knew that she hadn’t exactly thought very highly of him on their first meeting. After all, he had just walked into the Jarl’s palace like some curious traveller, then dumped news of dragons on their heads. But apparently her opinion had changed of him after the recent battle. She might have been about to say something to him, but one of the guards interrupted her.

“You wouldn’t understand, Housecarl. You ain’t a Nord.”

Irileth’s auburn eyebrow raised again and she seemed to be having trouble deciding whether to roll her eyes or laugh. “I’ve been all across Tamriel. I’ve seen plenty of things just as outlandish as this.”

The Dunmer’s scoff managed to snap Leto out of his stupor. When the thought bubbled into his mind, he couldn’t stop his mouth from spilling the words. “Where exactly have you been?”

All eyes turned to him once more, but this time with a great deal of confusion rather than awe. “What?” Irileth asked.

“You said you’ve been all across the continent and seen things this crazy,” Leto said. “I just wanted to know where so that I _never_ go there.” He pointed at the perfectly clean skeleton lying slumped in the exact position the dragon’s corpse had died, when, by all logic, it should have crumpled to a pile of bones with no meat to keep them together. “That’s more madness than I can deal with.”

Irileth flashed him a grin, barely supressing a chuckle. Then she turned back to the guards who, at having the reminder of the dragon’s power flowing into the young Nord, were beginning to murmur about legends once more.

“I’d advise you all to trust in the strength of your sword arm over tales and legends. Either way, though, the threat is now passed,” she stated bluntly in an attempt to bring order to the awestruck and still slightly shaken Nords. “We can return to Dragonsreach and tell the Jarl he can withdraw his troops from Riverwood.”

In truth, as she looked at the skeleton, she was almost disappointed that the mysterious dragon threat that had the whole Hold – and possibly the whole land, depending on who else had escaped Helgen and where they had run to tell their tale – was over. Almost.

“No it’s not,” Leto spoke up, but his voice was quiet and he shifted uncomfortably when all the guards fell silent and looked to him yet again.

“Explain,” the Dunmer ordered. The beast was dead, what more could there be to it? She hoped he wasn’t about to start claiming to be a legend. He’d seemed too uncomfortable with it a moment ago, but…

“It isn’t over. This wasn’t the dragon from Helgen. It’s still out there somewhere.”

“Are you certain?” She had to ask, even though his pale face told her all she needed to know of his certainty.

“Aye ma’am. I got a little too close a look at that beast… and this one wasn’t big enough or the right colour. He was a different dragon.”

The housecarl cursed. Well, that confirmed the rumours and theories circulating the Jarl’s court that there was more than one dragon. So far there had been no solid proof, no reports of others battling dragons and not even any plausible _rumours_ of massive lizards flying in the skies, even though it had only been around a week since Helgen. So the gossip was something she had ignored. But this Nord boy had been at the town when it was destroyed and his word was as close to evidence as she would get without seeing another dragon with her own two eyes.

“More dragons? Then this is a time of legend,” the guard in the leather helm said. “Only the Dragonborn can truly defeat a dragon.”

Before Irileth could remind him that they’d already had this conversation, the guards were all nodding their agreement to their comrade’s words.

One turned to Leto. “If you really are Dragonborn, like out of the old tales, you ought to be able to Shout.” When the young Nord remained silent and seemed to have found something of particular interest to examine on his boots, he prodded further. “Can you? Have you tried?”

Leto again looked to the Dunmer housecarl for help. She seemed amused that the topic had gone so quickly back to Nordic myths and simply shrugged at him. “Well, go on then. They want to hear you bellow like an angry bear. As a Nord, I’m sure that can’t be too difficult for you.”

He scowled at her. So much for her helping him. But he knew that what the guards wanted from him was more than just a battle-cry. Simply hollering wasn’t going to cut it. He glanced around the faces of the crowd, all watching intently with anticipation. Even those that had been wearing full-faced helms had either removed them or lifted the face-plate.

Leto finally shrugged and let out a heavy sigh. He was exhausted, aching and wounded in more places than he could count and he was also fairly certain he’d torn open the stitches in his back. All he wanted was to go to the Bannered Mare, drink and then collapse into bed. There was only going to be one way to put an end to the ridiculous idea that he was some kind of hero, and that was to show that his voice had no more power than to deafen anyone too close – just like any other Nord.

He thought about something to shout. It had to be something at least half-way convincing or the guards would probably make him do it again.

Then he remembered his idea. _Fus_ … Force. The word slithered up into his mind and he nodded. That would work. It was something strange and magical that he’d encountered. Whatever he’d absorbed from the dragon had enabled him to understand it… it was as good a word as any. Not to mention he’d finally have an idea of what exactly _had_ forced itself into his mind without needing to be studied by a mage like Farengar. And he would have the private joke that he had forced the guards to shut up and leave him alone.

Because, no matter how strange being struck by glowing tendrils of light was, no matter how impossible having visions and learning the name of the dragon was, he was _not_ anything special. He had to get his life back to some kind of normalcy after losing everything, not be stared at as though he was Ysmir reincarnated. He was just a terrible blacksmith’s apprentice with a tendency to burn himself while working the forge.

He lifted his head and grinned at the guard in the leather helm that Leto decided was the cause of his current misery, being the one who had brought the whole ‘Dragonborn’ subject up in the first place.

His eyes widened and he took a step back, raising his hands. “Oh no, kinsman. Aim that someplace else.”

Leto drew in a deep breath. “FUS!”

The air cracked and his voice rang out like thunder. A burst of blueish energy poured forth from his mouth and caught the guard full in the chest. As though he’d been slammed with a giant’s club, his feet left the ground and he was thrown backward, sailing through the air for a good fifteen feet, before slamming down onto his backside on the scorched earth.

Leto’s ears rang with the echoes of his Shout, his voice barely even recognisable to his own ears. His eyes went wide in shock and he quickly raised a hand to clamp over his own mouth, as though he could stop what had already occurred.

As suddenly as it had happened, the air cleared of the pulsing waves of the Word of Force. The young Nord gasped in a breath and the hand over his mouth moved down to grasp at his throat. He coughed, feeling as though he'd swallowed burning coals from a forge.

He stared at the leather-helmed guard – whose helmet had been sent skittering off somewhere – and tried to apologise, but nothing more than a dry rasp escaped his mouth.

The man picked himself up off the ground, grinning like a fool despite the fact he was obviously bruised. “By all I hold sacred… that’s a Shout!”

Leto kept staring at him, feeling the burning fire in his throat slowly ebb away. What had he done?! He’d meant to put a stop to everyone thinking there was something strange and fascinating about him… not _that_! And why was everyone smiling?!

Nords were famous all over Tamriel for their voices; a roaring battle-cry from the throat of a north-man could send hardened warriors fleeing for the hills… but to physically knock a man back on his rump with the shout of one word? That was a skill that took decades of training and the blessings of Kynareth herself. There were ancient warriors who had once learned to use their voices like a Dragonborn, but the only one known about currently was Ulfric Stormcloak himself, and he’d trained since childhood – or so the stories said.

But to instantly learn a power like that? It was something unheard of… and, to Leto, decidedly disturbing. By the gods… maybe there was something to what the guards were saying after all.

His heart started pounding and his legs began to feel weak again. This couldn’t be happening… it was insane! He couldn’t have just used the powers of the Dragonborn, he just –

A hand touched his arm and snapped him from his panic. Crimson eyes looked up at him as Irileth nodded her head toward the city in the distance.

“You better get back to Whiterun right away. Jarl Balgruuf will want to know what happened here.”

Leto simply nodded, too afraid to open his mouth in case he launched the small Dunmer across the field. He was grateful that she was letting him leave and giving him a head start back to the city. He needed to get away from the guards staring at him as though he were some kind of god in mortal form. The madness was too much and if he hadn’t been granted the opportunity to flee it, he might have crumpled to a quivering heap of confusion and fear right there on the spot he stood.

First his home was destroyed, then the horror of Helgen, then Bleak Falls Barrow, and now _this_? It was all too much. How much more was he supposed to endure before he cracked? What else did the gods have to throw at him? He was supposed to be trying to restart his life, pull himself together and lead a normal, honourable existence that would make his family proud that he had survived when they hadn’t. He was supposed to prove himself a decent enough apprentice that Adrianne would keep him on to work for her and chop wood for Hulda at the Bannered Mare.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. All he was supposed to do was deliver a damned message to the Jarl of Whiterun, not get caught up in legends and discover that he, of all people, could possibly be Dragonborn. How was he supposed to be the one to fight dragons and steal their power? Had the Divines gone mad? He could barely swing a sword with any accuracy and he certainly couldn’t aim his bow.

Had _he_ gone mad? Maybe this was all just some strange dream… maybe the mead he’d been drinking at his village’s inn with his father – what felt like a month ago – was some new, stronger brew the innkeeper had created and he was just drunk out of his mind. Or maybe one of those blows he’d taken to the head had left him simple or delusional.

Any of those explanations had to be more plausible than him being Dragonborn… surely. What he thought had happened couldn’t have really happened.

It had to be all just some big misunderstanding. Something strange had occurred, and the guards had latched onto the first thing they could think of to explain it. The truth had to be much simpler and have a better logic than him being a legend.

 _Yes, Leto,_ he thought bitterly. _Because there are so many other reasons that someone can absorb ancient magics from hidden walls of tombs and powers from dragons._

Mara’s mercy, he’d wanted something to keep him distracted him from the agony in his heart, but this was a bit much!

By some miracle, the young Nord managed to convince his unsteady legs to start walking. He remembered to retrieve his bow and slung it over his shoulder before heading to the road back to Whiterun. As he passed a guard, the one who had been stationed at the tower and he’d met when the small army of guards had first arrived, he thumped a fist over his heart and gave him a nod.

“I’m proud to have been your battle-brother, Dragonborn. Whiterun doesn’t need to fear with you on our side.”

With his head reeling and flashes of memory – some of which he was horrified to realise weren’t his own, but rather the dragon Mirmulnir’s – of the past few days racing through his mind, Leto ran as fast as his exhausted and injured body would allow him back towards Dragonsreach.

He’d made it as far as the stables and begun to calm down, managing to separate the turmoil in his mind into segments of ‘deal with later’ and ‘never think about again’ – which mostly involved the strange visions of flight and seeing the skies crowded with dragonkind – when a shout so loud he swore he could feel its vibrations in his very soul rang out from the top of the largest mountain that overlooked the Hold.

_DOV AH KIIN!_

A chorus of voices that tore through the plains and bounced off the hills, all shouting the same thing and enunciating the three syllables clearly enough to be heard from so far away. Leto froze in his tracks and stared up at the snowy peak. That word… or was it a name? That was what Mirmulnir had called him right before he died. While the stable workers stared up at the mountain, oblivious to the battered young Nord standing near them, Leto scanned the skies for the slightest glint of sun off scales, the tiniest sound or movement of leathery wings. Surely only a dragon had a voice powerful enough to travel so far and still have lingering echoes.

But none came. Only the cloudy skies that threatened rain or snow hovered above. And those voices… they hadn’t sounded like the deep, rumbling baritones that he’d heard from both dragons he’d encountered. They sounded like men. But… how was that possible? Maybe they could do what he had done, project their words with some kind of power. Maybe they’d undergone years of training like Ulfric Stormcloak had supposedly done… someone had to have taught him, after all.

Leto tore his gaze away from the sky and stowed that into the ‘deal with later’ section of his mind. He had to speak to the Jarl and assure him that the dragon was slain. Balgruuf would need to send healers down to the western watchtower and someone to collect whatever remains of the two guards who he had heard were snatched up when trying to flee.

And after he was done with the Jarl, Leto planned on drinking every bottle of mead Hulda had at the Bannered Mare… and maybe getting a healer to check him for brain damage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are enjoying my story. And i hope you like my delving a little deeper into what the absorption entails. I just feel like more needs to be said about how the Dragonborn can unlock Shouts when he gains a soul and wanted to experiment with what it was actually like.
> 
> Please leave me a review and let me know if you like or don't like what i've done with it, because i'm planning on continuing with exploring what absorbing immortal souls and having strange new words and knowledges is like for Leto.
> 
> Thank you for reading :)


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